


An American Classic

by itsnotkimmy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, MxM - Freeform, RusAme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-08-28 23:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotkimmy/pseuds/itsnotkimmy
Summary: School Teacher Alfred arrives in a small town in Montana. Expecting a normal small-town life, he suddenly meets Ivan, a single father, and also happens to be a Russian that is hated across town for the "crimes" of his past. Alfred not only finds love but maybe even a son. This story does have mentions of Rape.





	1. First Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note; this story was inspired by the book Mackenzie's Mountain. I just added the gay stuff here and there.

     He craved a man. Now.

     Ivan Braginsky spent a restless night, with the bright full moon throwing its silver light on the empty pillow beside him. His body ached with need, the sexual need of a healthy man and the passing hours only intensified his frustration.

     Finally, he got out of bed and walked naked to the window, his body moving with fluid power. The wooden floor was icy beneath his bare feet but he welcomed the discomfort, as it cooled the undirected desire that heated his blood. It reminded him of home.

     The colorless moonlight starkly etched the angles and planes of his face, a testimony of his heritage. Even more than the thick silver hair that he wore long to touch his shoulders, even more than the heavily- lidded eyes, his face proclaimed him a pureblood Russian. His father had taken him away from the violence in Russia when he was just a boy. Leaving his two sisters behind, Ivan was only twelve years old at the time. He had been a natural warrior, thanks to his Russian side, a fact soon discovered by the military when he'd enlisted.

     He also was a sensualist. He knew his own nature well, and though he controlled it, there were times when he needed to feel a warm body beneath his hands. In those times, he usually visited Toris Laurinaitis. He was a divorced man, several years older, who lived in a small town several miles away. Their arrangement had lasted five years; neither Ivan, nor Toris were interested in a relationship, but both had needs and quickly found to tolerate each other’s presence.

     Ivan tried not to visit Toris too often, and he took care to never be seen entering his house. He accepted the fact, unemotionally, that Toris' neighbors would be outraged if they knew he kept with a Russian. And not just any Russian; a rape charge stuck to a man forever.

     The next day was a Saturday. There would be the usual chores to do, and he had to pick up a load of fencing materials in Calais, the small town at the base of his mountain, but Saturday nights were traditionally reserved for looking at the night sky. He wouldn't look up, hadn't since he left his family back in Russia, but he would go visit Toris and burn off his sexual tension in the other man's bed.

     The night was turning colder, and low heavy clouds were moving in. He watched until they obscured the moon, knowing they meant new snow. He didn't want to return to his empty bed. His face was impassive, but his loins ached. He needed a man.

* * *

  
     Alfred F. Jones had numerous small chores to occupy his time that Saturday morning, but his conscience wouldn't let him rest until he'd spoken to Viktor Braginsky. The boy had dropped out of school two months before, a month before he'd arrived to take the place of a teacher who had abruptly quit.  
No one mentioned the boy to Alfred, but he'd run across his school record, and curiosity leads him to read it.

     In the small town of Calais, there weren't many students in school, and he thought that he'd met them all. In fact, there were less than sixty students, total, and the graduation rate was almost 100%, so any dropout was unusual.  
When he'd read Viktor Barginsky's record, he'd been stunned. The boy was top of his class, with straight A's in all his subjects. Students who did poorly would often get discouraged and drop out, but every teaching instinct he had was outraged that such an outstanding student would just quit. He had to talk to him, try to make him understand how important his education would be for his future. 15 was so young to make a mistake that would haunt him the rest of his life. He wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he hadn't done his best to talk him into returning.

     It had snowed again in the night and had turned bitterly cold. The cat meowed plaintively as it wound around his feet as if complaining about the weather.

     "I know Coco...", He consoled the animal, "... The floor must be cold under your paws."

     Alfred could sympathize. He didn't think his feet had been warm since he had moved to Calais. Before another winter came, he promised himself, he would own a pair of warm, sturdy boots, fur-lined and waterproof, and he would stomp about in the snow as if he'd been doing it all his life. Like a native. Actually, he needed the boots now, but the expenses of moving had wiped out his cash reserves, and the teachings of his thrifty grandmother prevented him from buying the boots on credit.

     Coco meowed again as he pulled on two pairs of socks and his best pair of Doc Martins. He paused to scratch behind the little black cat's ears, and his back arched in ecstasy. He had inherited him with the house, which the school board had arranged for him to live in. The cat, like the house, wasn't much. He had no idea how old Coco was, but both he and the house looked a little run down.

     Alfred had always resisted owning a cat, it seemed like the crowning touch to an old-maid's life, but finally, fate had caught up with him. He was an old-maid, or whatever the male equivalent was. Now he owns a cat... the picture was complete.  
As he looked in the mirror to make certain his hair was tidy, he sighed. Cats were just his style, along with being pale, slight and nondescript. "Mousy" was a good word. Alfred Freedom Jones (haha, yes laugh it up) had been born to be an old maid, and there was nothing he could do about that.

     He was dressed as warmly as he could, so there was no point putting it off any longer; it wasn't going to get any warmer until spring. Alfred braced himself for the shock of cold air on a system that still expected the warmth of California. He had left his tidy little nest in Los Angeles for the challenge of a tiny school in Calais, for the excitement of a different way of life. He even admitted to a small yearning for adventure, though of course, he never allowed it to surface. But somehow, he hadn't thought about the weather. He had been prepared for snow, but not the bitter temperatures. No wonder there were so few students, he thought as he opened his door and the wind whipped at him. It was too cold for the adults to undress enough to do anything that might result in children!

     He got snow in his Doc Martins as he walked to his car, a sensible two-door, midsize Chevrolet sedan, on which he had sensibly put a new set of snow tires when he'd moved to Montana. According to the weather report on the radio that morning, the high would be 7 degrees below zero. Alfred sighed again for the weather he'd left behind in Los Angeles; it was March now, and spring would be in full swing, with flowers blooming in a riot of color.  
But Calais, Montana, was beautiful, in a wild, majestic way. The soaring mountains dwarfed the puny man-made houses, and he had been told that come springtime, the meadows would be carpeted in wildflowers, he couldn't wait. Montana was a different world to Los Angeles, and he was just like a transplanted flower who was having trouble getting acclimated.

     Alfred had gotten instructions on how to get to Braginsky's Mountain, though the information had been reluctantly given. It puzzled him that no one seemed interested in the boy, ‘cos the people in the little town had been friendly and helpful to him. The most direct comment he had gotten was from Mr. Hearst, the grocery-store owner, who had muttered that... "The Braginsky’s aren't worth your trouble!"

But Alfred considered any child worth his trouble. He was a teacher, and he meant to teach.

     As he got into his sensible car, he could see Braginsky's Mountain, as well as the narrow road that wound up its side like a ribbon, and he quaked inside. New snow tires were notwithstanding, he wasn't a confident driver in this strange environment. Snow was… well, snow was alien, not that he'd let it stop him from doing what he'd set out to do.  
It was so cold that he was already shivering so hard that he struggled to fit the key into the ignition. It actually hurt his nose and lungs to inhale. Maybe he should wait for better weather before attempting the drive. He looked at the mountain again. Maybe in June all of the snow would be gone… but Viktor Braginsky had already been out of school for two months, and by June, he feared that the gap would be insurmountable to him, and he wouldn't make the effort. It might already be too late, but he had to try, and he couldn't even let another week go by.

     It was his habit to give himself pep talks whenever he was pushing himself to do something difficult.

     "It won't seem so steep once I'm actually on the road. All uphill roads look vertical from a distance. It's a perfectly negotiable road, otherwise, the Braginsky’s wouldn't be able to get up and down. And if they can do it, so can I."

     Well, perhaps he could do it. Driving on snow was an acquired skill, one he hadn't as yet mastered.  
When he finally reached the mountain and the road tilted upward, his hands clenched on the steering wheel as he deliberately refrained from looking over the side at the increasing distance to the valley floor. Knowing how far it was possible for him to fall if he drove off the edge wouldn't help him at all. That would be in the category of useless knowledge, of which he already had quite enough.

     "I won't slide..."

     He muttered to himself.

     "... I won't go fast enough to lose control… The Braginsky won't mind if I talk to Viktor.."

     He reassured himself, in an attempt to get his mind off the drive.

     ".. Maybe he had trouble with a girlfriend, and that is why he doesn't want to go to school. At his age, it's probably all blown over by now."

     Actually, the drive wasn't as bad as he'd feared. The incline was more gradual than it had appeared, and he didn't think he had too much further to go. The mountain wasn't as enormous as it had looked from the valley.  
He was so intent on his driving that he didn't notice the red light that appeared on the dash. He had no warning of overheating until steam suddenly erupted from beneath the hood, the frigid air instantly converting the mist into ice crystals on the windshield. Alfred instinctively hit the breaks, then uttered a discreet oath when the wheels began to slide. Quickly he lifted his foot from the brake pedal, and the tires found traction again, but he couldn't see. Closing his eyes, he prayed that he was still going in the right direction and let the car's weight slow it to a stop.

     The engine was hissing and bellowing like a dragon. Shaking in reaction, he turned off the ignition and got out of the car, gasping as the wind lashed at him like an icy whip.  
The hood release mechanism was stiff from the cold, but finally yielded, and he raised the hood to see what had happened, on the grounds that it would be nice to know what was wrong with the car, even if he couldn't fix it. It didn't take a mechanic to see the problem; one of the water hoses had split, and hot water was spitting fitfully from the break.

     Instantly he recognized the precariousness of his position. He couldn't stay in the car, because he couldn't let the motor run to keep him warm. The road was a private one, and the Braginsky's might not leave their ranch that day, or the entire weekend. It was too cold, and too far for him to walk back to his own house. His only option was to walk to the Braginsky ranch and pray it wasn't too far. His feet were almost numb.  
He didn't let himself dwell on the thought that he might not make it to the Braginsky ranch, either. Instead, he began to walk steadily up the road and tried to ignore the snow that got inside his Doc Martins with every step.

     He rounded the corner and lost sight of his car, but when he looked ahead, there was still no sign of a house, or even a barn. He felt alone as if he'd been dropped into the middle of a wilderness. There was only the mountain, the snow, the vast sky and himself. The silence was absolute. It hurt to walk, and he found himself sliding his feet instead of picking them up. He had gone fewer than two hundred yards.  
His lips trembled as he hugged himself in an effort to retain his body's heat. Painful or not, he would just have to keep walking.

     Then he heard the low growl of a powerful engine, and he stopped, relief welling in him so painfully that tears burned his eyes. He had a horror of crying in public and blinked them back. There was no sense in crying; he had been walking less than 15 minutes and hadn't been in any real danger at all. It was just his overactive imagination, as usual. He shuffled in the snow to the side of the road, to get out of the way, and waited for the approaching vehicle.

     It came into view, a big black pickup with enormous tires. He could feel the driver's eyes lock on him, and in spite of himself, he ducked his head in embarrassment. Old maid school teachers weren't accustomed to being the center of attention, and on top of that, he felt a perfect fool. It must look like he had gone for a stroll in the snow.  
The truck slowed to a stop opposite him, and a man got out.  
He was taller than Alfred, and his strength showed in his broad shoulders and chest, and Alfred felt in an instant that he was under threat. He didn't like that. But strong or not, he was Alfred's rescuer.

     Alfred wound his gloved fingers together and wondered what he should say. How did a person ask to be rescued? He had never hitched a ride before, it didn't seem proper for a settled, respectable school teacher.

     Ivan stared at the man, astounded that anyone would be out in the cold while dressed so stupidly. What in hell was he doing on his mountain, anyway? How had he gotten here?

     Suddenly he realized who he was. He'd overheard talk in the feed store about a new schoolteacher from somewhere down South. He'd never seen anyone who looked more like a schoolteacher than this man, and he was definitely dressed wrong for a Montana winter. His blue button-up, black suit pants, and brown coat were so frumpy, that he was almost a cliché. Ivan could see wisps of blonde hair straggling out from beneath his brown wool hat. And on his feet... Doc Martins, where he should have snow boots. Snow was caked almost to his knees.

     Ivan had surveyed the teacher completely in two seconds flat and didn't wait to hear what explanation he had for being on his mountain if he intended to say anything at all. So far he hadn't uttered a word but continued to stare at him with a faintly scared look on his face. Ivan wondered if he considered it beneath him to speak to a Russian man, a commie bastard, even to ask for help. Mentally he shrugged. What the hell, he couldn't leave him out here in the snow.

     Since the teacher hadn't spoken, Ivan didn't either. He simply bent down and passed one arm behind his knees and the other behind his back, and lifted him as he would a child, ignoring his gasp and carrying him quickly to the truck. During the moments that he held him, he reflected that he didn't actually weigh much more than a child, did he even eat? He saw a flash of startled deep blue eyes, then arms passed around his neck and he was holding him in a convulsive grip as if he were afraid of being dropped.

     Ivan shifted the teacher's weight so he could open the passenger door and deposited him on the seat, then briskly wiped the snow from his feet and legs as well as he could. He heard him gasp again but didn't look up. When he had finished, he dusted the snow from his gloves and went around to climb behind the wheel.

     "How long have you been walking?"

     He muttered, reluctantly.  
     Alfred started. He hadn't expected his voice to be so deep that it almost reverberated. He felt his cold cheeks prickle as blood rushed to them from the heat blasting in the truck.

     "I… Not long...", He stammered. Alfred wanted to remain with some dignity, but something told him that if he told the stranger what had happened, maybe he could help.

     ".. About 15 minutes. I blew a water hose... That is, my car did."

     Ivan glanced at him in time to see him hastily lower his eyes again and noticed his pinked cheeks. Good, he was getting warm. He was flushed; Ivan could see it in the way he kept twisting his fingers together. Did he think that he was going throw him down on the seat and rape him? After all, he was a renegade Russian, and capable of anything. Then again, the way he looked, maybe this was the most excitement he'd ever had.

     They hadn't been far from the ranch house and reached it in a few minutes. Ivan parked close to the kitchen door and got out. He circled the truck and reached the passenger door just as the teacher opened it and began to slide down.

     "Forget it."

     Ivan said, and lifted him again, gaining a small squeak of surprise, but no objection. The warmth of the house enfolded Alfred, and he inhaled with relief, hardly noticing as Ivan turned a wooden chair away from the table and placed him on it. Without speaking, Ivan turned on the hot tap and let it run, then filled a dishpan, frequently checking the water and adjusting the temperature.

     Well, he had reached his destination, and though he hadn't accomplished his arrival in quite the manner he had intended, he might as well get to the purpose of his visit.

     "I'm Alfred Jones, the new schoolteacher."

    I know.", Ivan said briefly. Alfred's eyes widened as he stared at the other man’s strong back.

     "You know?"

     “Not many strangers around here."

     Alfred realized that the other hadn't introduced himself, and was suddenly unsure. Was this even the right place?

     "Are... Are you Mr.Braginsky?" Ivan glanced over his shoulder at the shivering man.

     "I'm Ivan Braginsky." Alfred was suddenly diverted.

     "Are you Nordic?" Ivan turned around with the dishpan in his hands.

     "No, I'm Russian." He placed the pan on the floor by Alfred's feet. Alfred blinked.

     "Russian…?"

     Alfred felt incredibly stupid. He should've guessed, given the silver hair and the paleness of his skin, but he hadn't. Most of the men in Calais had light, but tanned skin, and he had simply thought Ivan's lighter than the rest. Then he frowned at him and said in a positive tone.

     "... Braginsky… Isn't that a Polish name?" Ivan frowned back at him.

     "No! If it had ended with an “I” instead of a “Y” then yes maybe it could be Polish."

     "Oh… You’re a long way from home aren’t you…?” Alfred knew how Russian were treated in these secluded towns. Even years after the Cold War had ended, there was no trust between Americans and Russians, especially with small towns like these. Alfred asked the question with the same unconsciousness as if he'd been asking for directions, brows lifted inquiringly over his blue eyes. It set Ivan's teeth on edge.

     "Yeah."

     He grunted. There was something so irritating about the primness of the teacher's expression that he wanted to shock him out of his prissiness. Then he noticed the shivers shaking the younger man's body, and he pushed the irritation aside, at least until he could get him warm. The clumsy way he had been walking when Ivan had first seen him had told him that Alfred was in the first stages of hypothermia. He shrugged out of his heavy coat and tossed it aside, then put on a pot of coffee.

     Alfred sat silently as Ivan made coffee. Ivan clearly wasn't a very talkative person, though that wasn't going to make Alfred give up. He was truly cold, so he would wait until he had a cup of that coffee, then begin again. He looked up as Ivan turned back to him, but his expression was unreadable.

     Without a word he took the wool hat from his head and began unbuttoning Alfred's coat. Startled, Alfred said-

     "I can do that...", But his fingers were so cold that any movement was agony. Ivan stepped back and let him try for a moment, then brushed his hands aside and finished the job himself.

     "... Why are you taking my coat off when I'm so c...cold?" He asked in bewilderment as Ivan peeled the coat down his arms.

     "So I can rub your arms and legs..." Then he proceeded to remove Alfred's, Doc Martins. The idea was as alien to Alfred as snow. He wasn't accustomed to anyone touching him and didn't intend to become accustomed. He started to tell Ivan so, but the words vanished unsaid as Ivan thrust his hands onto the tops of Alfred's thighs, and moved quickly up toward his waist. Alfred gave a startled shriek and jerked back, almost overturning the chair. Ivan glared at him, his eyes like black ice.

     “You don't have to worry." He snapped, irritation clearly shown on his face, "… Today is Saturday. I only rape on Tuesday's and Thursday's." Although this was dark humor, this was the only way he could make light of his past convictions.

     He thought about throwing his ass back out into the snow, but he couldn't let a man freeze to death, not even a white man who thought his touch would contaminate him.  
Alfred's eyes grew so wide that they eclipsed the rest of his face.

     "What's wrong with Saturday's?" Alfred blurted, then realized that he had almost issued him an invitation, for pity's sake! He clapped his gloved hands to his face as a tide of red surged to his cheeks. His brain must've frozen, it was the only possible explanation.

     Ivan jerked his head up, not believing he had actually said that. Wide, horrified blue eyes stared at him from over black leather gloves, which covered the rest of Alfred's face but couldn't quite cover the hot color. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone blush that it took Ivan a minute to realize that Alfred was acutely embarrassed. Why he was a prude! It was the final cliché to add to the dowdy, old maid schoolteacher image he presented. Amusement softened Ivan's irritation. This was probably the highlight of the younger man's life.

     "I'm going take off your socks and roll up your pant legs now, so you can put your feet in the water," Ivan explained in a gruff voice.

     "Oh." The word was muffled because his hands were still over his mouth. Ivan's hands were still on Alfred's hips. Almost unconsciously he felt the narrowness of him and the softness. Dowdy or not, Ivan's heartbeat increased as his body began to respond to Alfred's nearness. Damn, he needed a man worse than he thought if this frumpy little schoolteacher could turn him on.

     He slid his hands down Alfred's slim legs, feeling him tremble under his touch, and proceeded to roll up both pant legs, noting how pale and smooth the skin was beneath, then removed his socks. Two pairs! Perhaps the boy wasn't totally stupid after all.  
Ivan lifted Alfred's feet onto his thighs and slid the dishpan into place, then slowly lowered his feet into the water. He had made certain that the water was only warm, but he knew that the younger man's feet were so cold even that would be painful. Alfred sucked in his breath but didn't protest, though Ivan saw the gleam of tears in his eyes when he looked up at him.

     "It won't hurt for long." The Russian murmured reassuringly, moving so that his legs were on each side of Alfred's, clasping them warmly. Then he carefully removed Alfred's gloves, struck by the delicacy of his cold, white hands. He held them between his warm palms for a moment, then made a decision and unbuttoned his own shirt as he crowded closer to the nervous teacher.

     "This will warm them up." He said and tucked Alfred's hands into the hollows of his armpits.  
     Alfred was dumbstruck. He couldn't believe that his hands were nestled in his armpits like birds. Ivan's warmth seared his cold fingers. He wasn't actually touching skin; Ivan wore a t-shirt, but it was still the most intimate he had ever been with another person. Armpits… well, everyone had them, but he certainly wasn't accustomed to touching them. He had never been this surrounded by anyone in his life. Ivan's hard legs were on each side of his, clasping them, and Alfred was leaned forward a little, his hands neatly tucked beneath his arms, while Ivan briskly rubbed his hands over the younger man's arms and shoulders, then down to his thighs.

     Alfred made a little sound of surprise; he simply couldn't believe this was happening, not to Alfred Arthur Way, old maid schoolteacher ordinary. Ivan had been concentrating on his task, but he looked up at the sound Alfred made, into his wide blue eyes. The teacher was very close, his face just inches from his. Alfred had the most delicate skin he'd ever seen, as fine-grained as an infant's, so pale and translucent he could see the fragile tracery of blue veins at his temples. Only the very young should have skin like that. As he watched, another blush began to stain Alfred's cheeks, and unwillingly he felt himself become entranced by the sight. He wondered if the younger man's skin was that silky and delicate all over- his chest, his stomach, his thighs, between his legs. The thought was like an electric jolt to his system, overloading his nerves. Damn, he smelled sweet! And he would probably jump straight out of that chair if he did what he wanted to, and buried his face between Alfred's slim thighs.

     Alfred licked his lips, oblivious to the way Ivan's eyes followed the movement. He had to say something, but he didn't know what. Ivan's physical nearness seemed to have paralyzed his thought processes. My goodness, he was warm! And close. He should remember why he had come here in the first place, instead of acting like a ninny because a very good-looking, very masculine person was too close to him. He licked his lips again and cleared his throat.

     "Ah... I came to speak to Viktor, if I may?” Ivan's expression changed very little, yet Alfred had the impression that he was instantly aloof.

     "Viktor isn't here. He's doing chores."

     "I see. When will he be back?"

     "In an hour, maybe two." Alfred looked at him a little disbelievingly.

     "Are you Viktor' father?"

     "Yes."

     "And his mother is...?"

     "Dead." The flat, solitary word jarred Alfred, yet at the same time, he was aware of a faint, shocking sense of relief. He looked away from Ivan again.

     "How did you feel about Viktor quitting school?"

     "It was his decision."

     "But he's only 15! He's just a boy-"

     "He's Russian." Ivan interrupted, "He's a man, he knows how to take care of himself."

     Indignation mingled with exasperation to act as a spur. Alfred jerked his hands from Ivan's armpits and planted them on his hips.

     "What does that have to do with anything? He's 15 years old and he needs an education!"

     "He can read, write and do the math. He also knows everything there is to know about training horses and running a ranch. He chose to quit school and work here full-time. This is my ranch and my mountain. One day it will be his. He decided what to do with his life, and it's training horses."

     Ivan didn't like explaining his and Viktor' personal business to anyone, but there was something about this huffy, dowdy little teacher that made him answer. Alfred didn't seem to realize he was Russian; intellectually he knew it, but he obviously had no idea what it meant to be Russian, and to be Ivan Braginsky in particular, to have people turn aside to avoid speaking to him.

     "I'd like to talk to him anyway," Alfred said stubbornly.

     "That's up to him. He may not want to talk to you."

     "You won't try to influence him at all?"

     "No."

     "Why not? You should at least have tried to keep him in school."

     Ivan leaned very close, so close that his nose almost touched the younger man's. Alfred stared into his dark eyes, his own widening.

     "He's Russian, малыш. Maybe you don't know what that means. Hell, how could you? You're an American. Russians aren't welcome. What education he has, he got on his own, without any help from the American teachers. When he wasn't being ignored, he was being insulted. Why would he want to go back?"

     Alfred swallowed, alarmed by his aggression. He wasn't accustomed to men getting right in his face and swearing at him. Truthfully, Alfred admitted that he wasn't accustomed to men at all. He'd always been the shy bookworm throughout school, his only friend being his twin brother Matthew. All the boys he'd liked had ignored the mousy, bookish boy, and when he had gotten older, the men had done the same. He paled a little, but he felt so strongly about his beliefs of a good education, that he refused to let Ivan intimidate him. Strong people often did that to weaker people, probably without even thinking about it, but he wasn't going to give in simply because Ivan Braginsky was stronger than he was.

     "He was at the head of his class." He said briskly, "… If he managed that on his own, think what he could accomplish with help!" Ivan stood up, towering over Alfred.

     "As I said, it's up to him."

     The coffee had long since finished brewing, so he turned to pour and hand it to the young teacher. Silence fell between them. Ivan leaned against the cabinets and watched Alfred sip daintily, like a cat. Dainty, yeah, that was a good word for him. He wasn't tiny, maybe five seven, but he was slightly built. Ivan's eyes trailed over Alfred's slender body. He wondered if the younger man's nipples would be a delicate pink or rosy beige. He wondered if the younger man would be able to take him comfortably if he would be so tight he'd go wild-

     Sharply he brought his erotic thoughts to a halt. Damn it, that particular lesson should have been etched into his soul! Americans might flirt with him and twitch themselves around him, but few of them really wanted to get down and dirty with a Russian. This frumpy little schoolteacher wasn't even flirting with him, so why was he getting so turned on? Maybe it was because Alfred was a frump. He kept imagining how the dainty body beneath those awful clothes would look, stripped bare and stretched out on his sheets.

     Alfred set the cup aside.

     "I'm much warmer now. Thank you, the coffee did the trick." That, and the way Ivan had run his hands all over him, but he wasn't about to tell him that. He looked up at Ivan and hesitated, suddenly uncertain when he saw the look in his almost black eyes. He didn't know what it was, but there was something about him that made his heart rate increase, made him feel faintly uneasy. Was he actually looking at Alfred's crotch?

     "I think some of Viktor' old clothes will fit you," Ivan said, face and voice expressionless.

     "Oh, I don't need any clothes. I mean, what I have on is perfect-"

     "Idiotic…" Ivan interrupted with a smirk,"... This is Montana, малыш, not Texas, or wherever you're from."

     "California." Alfred supplied.  
     Ivan grunted, which seemed to be one of his basic means of communication, and took a towel from a drawer. Going down on one knee, he lifted Alfred's feet from the water and wrapped them in the towel, rubbing them dry with a touch so gentle it was at odds with the thinly veiled hostility of his manner. Then, standing…

     "Come with me."

     "Where are we going?"

     "To the bedroom." Alfred stopped, blinking at him, and a bitter smile twisted Ivan's mouth.

     "Don't worry...", He said harshly. "... I'll control my savage appetites, and after you get dressed, you can get the hell off my mountain."


	2. New Revelations

     Alfred drew himself up to his full height and lifted his chin, his mouth setting itself in a prim line.

     "It isn't necessary to make fun of me, Mr. Braginsky." He said calmly, but his even tone was hard won. He knew he fell short in the come-hither department; he didn't need sarcasm to remind him. Usually, he wasn't disturbed by his mousiness, having accepted it as an unchangeable fact, much like having the sunrise in the east. But Mr. Braginsky made him feel strangely vulnerable, and it was oddly painful that he should have pointed out how unappealing he was.

     Ivan's straight black brows drew together over his high-bridged nose.

     "I wasn't making fun of you.” He snapped, rolling his eyes. _Americans…_

     "I was dead serious, малыш. I want you off my mountain."

     "Then I'll leave, of course." He replied steadily, "But it was still unnecessary to make fun of me." Alfred put his hands on his hips. Yes, he might not have been as tall as Ivan, but he came here for a reason damn it! And he would see it through!

      "Make fun of you? How?" A flush tinged Alfred's exquisite skin, but his blue eyes never wavered.

     "I know I'm not an attractive man, certainly not the type to stir a man's—er, savage appetites." He was serious. Ten minutes ago, Ivan would have agreed with him that he was plain, and God knew he was no fashion plate, but what astounded him was that he honestly didn't seem to realize what it meant that he was Russian, or what he'd meant by his sarcasm, or even that he had been strongly aroused by his closeness. A lingering throbbing in his loins reminded him that his reaction hadn't completely subsided. He gave a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of amusement. Why not put a little more excitement in his life? When Alfred heard the flat truth, he wouldn't be able to get off his mountain fast enough.

     "I wasn't joking or making fun," Ivan said. His almost violet eyes glittered at the younger man.

     "Touching you like that, being so close to you that I could smell the sweetness, turned me on." Astonished, Alfred stared at him.

     "Turned you on?" The American asked blankly.

     "Yeah." Alfred still stared at him as if he were speaking a different language, and impatiently he added, "Got me hot, however you want to describe it."

     Alfred pushed a silky strand of hair behind his ear.

     "You're making fun of me again!" The blond accused. It was impossible. He had never made a man... aroused a man in his life.

     Ivan was already irritated, already aroused. He had learned to use iron control when dealing with Americans, but something about this prim little teacher got under his skin. Frustration filled him until he thought he might explode. He hadn't intended to touch Alfred, but suddenly he had his hands on his waist, pulling him toward him.

     "Maybe you need a demonstration," Ivan said in a rough undertone and bent to cover Alfred's mouth with his.

     Alfred trembled in profound shock, his eyes enormous as Ivan moved his lips over his. Ivan's eyes were closed. Alfred could see the individual lashes, and for a moment marveled at how thick they were. Then his hands, still clasped on his waist, drew him into firm contact with his muscled body, and he gasped. Ivan took instant advantage of his opened mouth, probing inside with his tongue. Alfred quivered again, and his eyes slowly closed as a strange heat began to warm his insides. The pleasure was unfamiliar and so intense that it frightened him. A host of new sensations assailed him, making him dizzy. There was the firmness of his lips, his heady taste, the startling intimacy of his tongue stroking his as if enticing it to play. He felt the heat of his body, smelled the warm muskiness of his skin. His thin chest was pressed against the muscular planes of Ivan's chest, and his nipples began to tingle in that strange, embarrassing way again.

     Suddenly Ivan lifted his mouth from his, and sharp disappointment made his eyes fly open. His black gaze burned him.

     "Kiss me back." The Russian muttered.

     "I don't know how." Alfred blurted, still unable to believe this was happening. His voice was almost guttural.

     "Like this."

     Ivan took his mouth again, and this time he parted his lips immediately, eager to accept his tongue and feel that odd, surging pleasure once more. He moved his mouth over the younger man's, molding his lips with fierce pleasure, teaching him how to return the pressure. His tongue touched his again, and this time Alfred responded shyly in kind, welcoming his small invasion with gentle touches of his own. He was too inexperienced to realize the symbolism of his acceptance, but Ivan began to breathe harder and faster, and his kiss deepened, demanding even more of him.

     A frightening excitement exploded through Alfred's body, going beyond mere pleasure and becoming a hungry need. He was no longer cold at all, but burning inside as his heartbeat increased until his heart was banging against his ribs. So, this was what he meant when he'd said he got him hot. Ivan got him hot, too, and it stunned him to think Ivan had felt this same restless yearning, this incredible wanting. He made a soft, unconscious sound and moved closer to him, not knowing how to control the sensations his experienced kisses had aroused.

Ivan's hands tightened painfully on his waist, and a low, rough sound rumbled in his throat. Then he lifted the lighter man, pulled him closer, adjusted Alfred's hips against his and graphically demonstrated his response to him.

     Alfred hadn't known it could be like that. He hadn't known that desire could burn so hot, could make him forget his grandma's warnings about men and the nasty things they liked to do to women and sometimes other men. Alfred had quite sensibly decided that those things couldn't be too nasty, or men and women wouldn't put up with them, but at the same time he had never flirted or tried to attract a boyfriend. The men he had met at college and on the job, had seemed normal, not slavering sex fiends; he was comfortable with other men. It was just that he wasn't sexy himself; no man had ever beaten down doors to go out with him, or even managed to accomplish the dialing of his telephone number, so his exposure to men hadn't prepared him for the tightness of Ivan Braginsky's arms, the hunger of his kisses, or the hardness of his manhood pushing against the juncture of his thighs. Nor had he known that he could want more.

     Unconsciously Alfred locked his arms around Ivan's neck and squirmed against him, tormented by increasing frustration. His body was on fire, empty and aching and wanting all at once, and he didn't have the experience to control it. The new sensations were a tidal wave, swamping his mind beneath the overload from his nerve endings. He was hard, and he had no idea how to deal with that.

     Ivan jerked his head back, his teeth locked as he relentlessly brought himself back under control. Violet fire burned in his eyes as he looked down at Alfred. His kisses had made the slight young teacher's soft lips red and pouty, and delicate pink colored his translucent porcelain skin. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he opened them and slowly met his gaze. His blonde hair had slipped completely from behind his ears, and tumbled silkily around his face, almost to his shoulders. Desire was on his face; he already looked tousled, as if Ivan had done more than kiss him, and in his mind, he had. Alfred was light and delicate in his arms, but he had twisted against him with a hunger that matched his own.

     He could take Alfred to bed now; he was that far gone, and Ivan knew it. But when he did, it would be because he had consciously made the decision, not because he was so hot he didn't know what he was doing. His inexperience was obvious; Ivan even had to teach him how to kiss—the thought stopped as abruptly as if he'd hit a mental wall, as he realized the full extent of his inexperience. Damn it, he was a virgin!

     The thought staggered him. Alfred was looking at him now with those deep blue eyes both innocent and questioning, languid with desire, as he waited for him to make the next move. He didn't know what to do. His arms were locked around Ivan's neck, his body pressed tightly to his, his legs opened slightly to allow Ivan to nestle against his own hard heat, and he was waiting for him because he didn't have a clue how to proceed. He hadn't even been kissed before. No man had touched that soft skin or taken his nipples in his mouth. No man had loved him at all before.

     Ivan swallowed the lump that threatened to choke him, his eyes still locked with Alfred's.

     "God Almighty, малыш, that nearly got out of hand."

     Alfred blinked.

     "Did it?"

     Ivan’s tone was prim, the words clear, but the dazed, sleepy look was still in his eyes. Slowly, because he didn't want to let him go, and gently because he knew he had to, Ivan let his body slip down him until he was standing on his feet again. He was innocent of the ramifications, but Ivan wasn't. He was Ivan Braginsky, a ‘commie bastard’, and sweet Alfred was the schoolteacher. The good citizens of Calais wouldn't want Alfred associating with him; he was in charge of their young people, with untold influence on their forming morals. No parents would want their impressionable son or daughter being taught by a man who was having a wild fling with a Russian ex-con. His prison record could be accepted, but his Russian blood would never go away.

     So, he had to let him go, no matter how much he wanted to take him to his bedroom and teach him all the things that went on between men who were that way inclined.

     Alfred's arms were still around his neck, his fingers buried in the hair at his nape. He seemed incapable of movement. Ivan reached up to take his wrists and draw his hands away from him.

     "I think I'll come back later."

     A new voice intruded in Alfred's dream world of newly discovered sensuality, and he jerked away, color burning his cheeks as he whirled to face the newcomer. A tall, black-haired boy stood just inside the kitchen door, his hat in his hand.

     "Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to barge in." Ivan stepped away from him.

     "Stay. He came to see you, anyway." The boy looked at Alfred quizzically.

     "You could have fooled me." Ivan merely shrugged.

     "This is Alfred Jones, the new schoolteacher. Mr. Jones, my son, Viktor."

     Even though his embarrassment, Alfred was jolted that he would call him ‘Mr. Jones’ after the intimacy they had just shared. But he seemed so calm and controlled as if it hadn't affected him at all, while every nerve in Alfred's body was still jangling. He wanted to fling himself against him and give himself up to that encompassing fire.

     Instead, he stood there, his arms stiffly at his sides while his face burned, and forced himself to look at Viktor Braginsky. He was the reason he was here, and he wouldn't allow himself to forget it again. As his embarrassment faded, he saw that he was very like his father. But though he was only 15, he was already six feet tall and already towered over his father, and his broad young shoulders showed the promise of being as powerful. His face was a younger version of Ivan's, as strong-boned and proud, the features precisely chiseled. He was calm and controlled, far too controlled for a 15-year-old, and his eyes, oddly, were pale, glittering blue. Those eyes held something in them, something untamed, as well as a sort of bitter acceptance and knowledge that made him old beyond his years. He was his father's son.

     There was no way Alfred could give up on him.

     He held out her hand to the taller boy.

     "I'd really like to talk to you, Viktor." His expression remained aloof, but he crossed the kitchen to shake his hand.

     "I don't know why."

     "You dropped out of school." The statement hardly needed verification, but he nodded. Alfred drew a deep breath.

     "May I ask why?"

     "There was nothing for me there."

     Alfred felt frustrated by the calm, flat statement because he couldn't sense any uncertainty in this unusual boy. As Ivan had said, Viktor had made up his own mind and didn't intend to change it. He tried to think of another way to approach him, but Ivan's quiet, a deep voice interrupted.

     "Mr. Jones, you can finish talking after you get into some sensible clothes. Viktor, don't you have some old jeans that might be small enough to fit him?"

     To Alfred's astonishment, the boy looked him over with an experienced eye.

     "I think so. Maybe the ones I wore when I was ten."

     For a moment amusement sparkled in his blue-diamond eyes, and Alfred primed his mouth. What did these Braginsky men get out of needlessly pointing out his lack of attractiveness?

     "Socks, shirt, boots, and coat," Ivan added to the list.

     "The boots will be too big, but two pairs of socks will hold them on."

     "Mr. Braginsky, I really don't need extra clothes. What I have on will do until I get home."

     "No, it won't. The high-temperature today is about ten below zero. You aren't walking out of this house with thin pants and those stupid boots." Alfred’s Doc Martins were suddenly stupid? He felt like flying to their defense but remembered the snow that had gotten inside them and frozen his toes. What was sensible in California was woefully inadequate in a Montana whiter.

     "Very well."

     He asserted, but only because it was, after all, the sensible thing to do. He still felt uncomfortable about taking Viktor' clothes, even temporarily. He had never worn anyone else's clothes before, never swapped sweaters or t-shirts with chums as an adolescent. Not even with Mikey. Grandma had thought such familiarity ill-bred.

     "I'll see about your car while you change." Without even glancing at him again, Ivan put on his coat and hat and walked out the door.

     "This way."

     Viktor said, indicating that he should follow him. He did so, and Viktor looked over his shoulder.

     "What happened to your car?"

     "A water hose blew."

     "Where is it?" He stopped.

     "It's on the road. Didn't you see it when you drove up?" An awful thought struck him. Had his car somehow slid off the mountain?

     "I came up the front side of the mountain. It's not as steep." Viktor looked amused again.

     "You actually tried driving up the back road in a car, when you're not used to driving in snow?"

     "I didn't know that was the back road. I thought it was the only road. Couldn't I have made it? I have snow tires.”

     "Maybe."

      Alfred noticed that he didn't sound very confident in his ability, but he didn't protest, because he wasn't very confident himself. Viktor led the way through a rustic but comfortable living room and down a short hallway to an open door.

     "My old clothes are boxed up in the storage room, but it won't take long for me to dig them out. You can change in here. It's my bedroom."

     "Thank you."

     Alfred murmured, stepping inside the room. Like the living room, it was rustic, with exposed beams and thick wooden walls. There was nothing in it to indicate it was inhabited by a teenage boy: no sports apparatus of any kind, no clothes on the floor. The full-size bed was neatly made, a homemade quilt smoothed on top. A straight chair stood in one corner. Next, to his bed, bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling; the shelves were obviously handmade but weren't crude. They had been finished, sanded and varnished. They were crammed with books, and curiosity led him to examine the titles.

     It took him a moment to realize that every book had to do with flight, from da Vinci's experiments through Kitty Hawk and space exploration. There were books on bombers, fighters, helicopters, radar planes, jets and prop planes, books on air battles fought in each war since pilots first shot at each other with pistols in World War I. There were books on experimental aircraft, on fighter tactics, on wing design and engineering capability.

     "Here are the clothes."

     Viktor had entered silently and placed the clothes on the bed. Alfred looked at him, but his face was impassive.

     "You like planes." He said, then winced at his own banality.

     “I like planes," Viktor admitted without inflection.

     "Have you thought about taking flying lessons?"

     "Yes." Viktor didn't add anything to that stark answer, however; he merely left the room and closed the door behind him.

     Alfred was thoughtful as he slowly removed his inadequate clothing, and pulled on the things Viktor had brought. The collection of books indicated not merely an interest in flying, but an obsession. Obsessions were funny things; unhealthy ones could ruin lives, but some obsessions lifted people to higher planes of life, made them shine with a brighter light, burn with a hotter fire, and if those obsessions weren't fed, then the person withered, a life blighted by starvation of the soul. If he were right, he had a way to reach Viktor and get him back in school.

     The jeans fit. Disgusted at this further proof that he had the figure of a ten-year-old boy, rather than that of a grown man, he pulled on the too-big flannel shirt and buttoned it, then rolled the sleeves up over his hands. As Ivan had predicted, the worn boots were too big, but the two pairs of thick socks padded his feet enough that the boots didn't slip up and down on his heels too much. The warmth was heavenly, and he decided he would pinch pennies any way he could until he could afford a pair of boots.

     Viktor was adding wood to the fire in the enormous rock fireplace when Alfred entered, and a little grin tugged at his mouth when he saw him.

     "You sure don't look like Mr. Lansdale or any other teacher I've ever seen."

     Alfred folded his hands.

     "Looks have nothing to do with ability. I'm a very good teacher—even if I do look like a ten-year-old boy."

     "Twelve. I wore those jeans when I was twelve."

     "What a consolation."

     Viktor laughed aloud, and Alfred felt pleased because he had the feeling neither he nor his father laughed much.

     "Why did you quit school?" He had learned that if you kept asking the same question, you would often get different answers, and eventually, the evasions would cease and the real answer would emerge. But Viktor looked at him steadily and gave the same answer as before.

     "There was nothing for me there."

     "Nothing more for you to learn?"

     "I'm Russian, Mr. Jones. At least, half Russian. My mother was Native American. What I learned, I learned on my own. Russians and Natives, two things that Americans hate the most."

Alfred paused.

     "Mr. Lansdale didn't—" He stopped, unsure of how to phrase his question.

     "I was invisible." Viktor' young voice was harsh.

     "From the time, I started school. No one took the time to explain anything to me, ask me questions, or include me in anything. I'm surprised my papers were even graded."

     "But you were number one in your class."

     Viktor shrugged.

     "I like books."

     "Don't you miss school, miss learning?"

     "I can read without going to school, and I can help Dad a lot more if I'm here all day. I know horses, Sir, maybe better than anyone else around here except for Dad, and I didn't learn about them in school. This ranch will be mine someday. This is my life. Why should I waste time in school?"

     Alfred took a deep breath and played his ace.

     "To learn how to fly."

     Viktor couldn't prevent the avid gleam that shone briefly in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.

     "I can't learn how to fly in Calais High School. Maybe someday I'll take lessons."

     "I wasn't talking about flying lessons. I was talking about the Air Force Academy."

     His light tan skin whitened. This time Alfred didn't see a gleam of eagerness, but a deep, anguished need so powerful it shook him as if he'd been shown a glimpse of heaven. Then he turned his head, and abruptly he looked older.

     "Don't try to make a fool of me. There's no way."

     "Why isn't there a way? From what I saw in your school records, your grade average will be high enough."

     "I dropped out."

     "You can go back."

     "As far behind as I am? I'd have to repeat this grade, and I won't sit still while those jerks call me a stupid half-breed."

     "You aren't that far behind. I could tutor you, bring you up fast enough that you could start your senior year in the fall. I'm a licensed teacher, Viktor, and for your information, my credentials are very good. I'm qualified to tutor you in the classes you need."

     The boy took a poker and jabbed at a log, sending a shower of sparks flying.

     "What if I do it?"

     He muttered.

     "The Academy isn't a college where you take an entrance exam, pay your money and walk in."

     "No. The usual way is to be recommended by your congressman."

     "Yeah, well, I don't think my congressman is going to recommend a half-breed. We're way down on the list of people it's fashionable to help. Dead last, as a matter of fact."

     "I think you're making too much of your heritage," Alfred said calmly.

     "You can keep blaming everything on being   Russian, or you can get on with your life. You can't do anything about other people's reactions to you, but you can do something about your own. You don't know what your congressman will do, so why give up when you haven't even tried yet? Are you a quitter?"

He straightened, his pale eyes fierce.

     "I don't reckon."

     "Then it's time to find out, isn't it? Do you want to fly bad enough that you'll fight for the privilege? Or do you want to die without ever knowing what it's like to sit in the cockpit of a jet doing Mach 1?"

     "You hit hard, sir." He whispered.

     "Sometimes it takes a knock on the head to get someone's attention. Do you have the guts to try?"

     "What about you? The folks in Calais won’t like it if you spend so much time with me. It would be bad enough if I were alone, but with Dad, it's twice as bad."

     "If anyone objects to my tutoring you, I'll certainly set him straight," Alfred said firmly.

     "It's an honor to be accepted into the Academy, and that's our goal. If you'll agree to be tutored, I'll write to your congressman immediately. I think this time your heritage will work in your favor." It was amazing how proud that strong young face could be.

     "I don't want it if they give it to me just because I'm half Native."

     "Don't be ridiculous." Alfred scoffed.

     "Of course, you won't be accepted into the Academy just because you're half Russian and half Native. But if that fact catches the congressman's interest, I say, good. It would only make him remember your name. It'll be up to you to make the grade.”

     Viktor raked his hand through his black hair, then restlessly walked to the window to look out at the white landscape.

      "Do you really think it's possible?"

     "Of course, it's possible. It isn't guaranteed, but it's possible. Can you live with yourself if you don't try? If we don't try?” Alfred didn't know how to go about bringing someone to a congressman's attention for consideration for recommendation to the Academy, but he was certainly willing to write to every senator and representative Montana had seated in Congress, a letter a week until he found out.

     "If I agreed, it would have to be at night. I have chores around here that have to be done."

     "Night is fine with me. Midnight would be fine with me if it would get you back in school." Viktor gave him a quick look.

     "You really mean it, don't you? You actually care that I dropped out of school."

     "Of course, I care."

     "There's no 'of course' about it. I told you, no other teacher cared if I showed up in class. They probably wished I hadn't."

     "Well..." Alfred said in his briskest voice, "I care. Teaching is what I do, so if I can't teach and feel I'm doing some good, then I lose part of myself. Isn't that how you feel about flying? That you have to, or you'll die?"

     "I want it so bad it hurts," Viktor admitted, his voice raw.

     "I read somewhere that flying is like throwing your soul into the heavens and racing to catch it as it falls.”

     "I don't think mine would ever fall." He murmured, looking at the clear cold sky. He stared, entranced as if paradise beckoned as if he could see forever. He was probably imagining himself up there, free and wild, with a powerful machine screaming beneath him and taking him higher. Then he shook himself, visibly fighting off the dream, and turned to the teacher.

     "Okay, Mr. Jones, when do we start?"

     "Tonight. You've already wasted enough time."

     "How long will it take for me to catch up?"

     Alfred gave him a withering look.

     "Catch up? You're going to leave them in the dust. How long it takes depends on how much work you can do."

     "Yes, sir." He said, grinning a little.

     Alfred thought that already he looked younger, more like a boy, than he had before. He was, in all ways, far more mature than the other boys his age in his classes, but he looked as if a burden had been lifted from him. If flying meant that much to him, how had it felt to set himself a course that would deny him what he wanted most?

     "Can you be at my house at six? Or would you rather I come here?"

     Alfred thought of that drive, in the dark and snow, and wondered if he'd make it if he wanted him to come here.

     "I'll come to your house since you aren't used to driving in snow. Where do you live?"

     "Go down the back road and take a left. It's the first house on the left." He thought a minute.

     "I believe it's the first house, period.”

     "It is. There isn't another house for five miles. That's the old Watchtower house."

     "So, I've been told. It was kind of the school board to arrange living quarters for me." Viktor looked dubious.

      "More like it was the only way they had of getting another teacher in the middle of the year."

     "Well, I appreciated it anyway," Alfred said firmly. He looked out the window.

     "Shouldn't your father be back by now?"

     "Depends on what he found. If it was something he could fix right then, he'd do it. Look, here he comes now."

      The black pickup roared to a stop in front of the house, and Ivan got out. Coming up on the porch, he stomped his feet to rid his boots of the snow caked on them and opened the door. His cool violet gaze flickered over his son, then to Alfred. His eyes widened fractionally as he examined every slim curve exhibited by Viktor' old jeans, but he didn't comment.

     "Get your things together." He instructed.

     "I have a spare hose that will fit your car. We'll put it on, then take you home."

     "I can drive," Alfred replied.

     "But thank you for your trouble. How much is the hose? I'll pay you for that."

     "Consider it neighborly assistance to a greenhorn. And we'll still take you home. I'd rather you practiced driving in the snow somewhere other than on this mountain."

     His face was expressionless, as usual, but Alfred sensed that he'd made up his mind and wouldn't budge. He got his clothes from Viktor' room and the rest of his things from the kitchen. When he returned to the living room, Ivan held a thick coat for him to wear. He slipped into it; since it reached almost to his knees and the sleeves totally obscured his hands, he knew it had to be Ivan's.

     Viktor had on his coat and hat again.

     "Ready." Ivan looked at his son.

     "Have you two had your talk?" The boy nodded.

     "Yes."

     He met his father's eyes squarely.

     "He's going to tutor me. I'm going to try to get into the Air Force Academy."

     "It's your decision. Just make sure you know what you're getting into."

     "I have to try."

     Ivan nodded once, and that was the end of the discussion. With Alfred sandwiched between them, they left the warmth of the house, and once again he was struck by the bitter, merciless cold. He scrambled gratefully into the truck, which had been left running, and the blast of hot air from the heater vents felt like heaven.

     Ivan got behind the wheel, and Viktor got in beside him, trapping him between their two bigger bodies. He sat with his hands primly folded and his booted feet placed neatly side-by-side as they drove down to an enormous barn with long stables extending off each side of it like arms. Ivan got out and entered the barn, then returned thirty seconds later with a length of thick black hose.

     When they reached his car, both Braginsky’s got out and poked their heads under the raised hood, but Ivan told him, in that tone of voice he already recognized as meaning business, to stay in the truck. He was certainly autocratic, but he liked Ivan's relationship with Viktor. There was a strong sense of respect between them.

     Alfred wondered if the townspeople were truly so hostile simply because the Braginsky's were half Russian and half Native. Something Viktor had said tugged at his memory, something about it would be bad enough if it were just him involved, but it would be twice as bad because of Ivan. What about Ivan? He'd rescued him from an unpleasant, even dangerous, situation, he'd seen to his comfort, and now he was repairing his car.

      He'd also kissed him silly.

     Alfred could feel his cheeks heat as he remembered those fierce kisses. No, the kisses, and remembering them, begot a different kind of heat. His cheeks were hot because his own behavior was so appalling he could barely bring himself to think about it. He had never—never! —been so forward with a man. It was totally out of character for him.

     Grandma would have had a conniption fit at the thought of her mousy, sedate grandson letting a strange man put his tongue in his mouth. It had to be unsanitary, though it was also, to be honest, exciting in a primitive way. And that wasn't even worrying about how she would handle the whole "gay" thing.

     Alfred's face still felt hot when Ivan got back into the truck, but he didn't even look at him.

     "It's fixed. Viktor will follow us."

     "But doesn't it need more water and antifreeze?" Ivan cast him a disbelieving look.

     "I had a can of antifreeze in the back of the truck. Weren't you paying attention when I got it out?"

     He blushed again. He hadn't been paying attention; he'd been lost in reliving those kisses he'd given him. His heart thundering and his blood racing. It was an extraordinary reaction, and he wasn't certain how to handle it. Ignoring it seemed the wisest course, but was it possible to ignore something like that?

     Ivan's powerful leg moved against him as he shifted gears, and abruptly he realized he was still sitting in the middle of the seat.

      "I'll get out of your way." He said hastily and slid over by the window.

     Ivan had liked the feel of him sitting next to him, so close that his arm and leg brushed his whenever he changed gears, but he didn't tell him that. Things had gotten way out of hand at the house, but he didn't have to let them go any further. This deal with Viktor worried him, and Viktor was more important to him than the way a soft man felt in his arms.

     "I don't want Viktor hurt because your do-gooder instincts won't leave well enough alone." He spoke in a low, silky tone that made Alfred jump, and he knew he sensed the menace in it.

     "The Air Force Academy! That's climbing high for a Russian-Native kid, with a lot of people waiting to step on his fingers." If he'd thought to intimidate him, he'd failed. Alfred turned toward him with fire sparking in his eyes, his chin up.

     "Mr. Braginsky, I didn't promise Viktor he would be accepted into the Academy. He understands that. His grades were high enough to qualify him for a recommendation, but he dropped out of school. He has no chance at all unless he gets back into school and gets the credits he needs. That's what I offered him: a chance."

     "And if he doesn't make it?"

     "He wants to try. Even if he isn't accepted, at least he'll know he tried, and at least he'll have a diploma."

     "So, he can do exactly what he would have done without the diploma."

     "Perhaps. But I'm going to begin checking into the procedure and qualifications on Monday and writing to people. The competition to get into the Academy is really fierce."

     "The people in town won't like you tutoring him."

     "That's what Viktor said."

     His face took on that prim, obstinate look.

     "But I'll have something to say to anyone who kicks up about it. Just let me handle them, Mr. Braginsky."

     They were already down the mountain that had taken him so long to drive up. Ivan was silent for the rest of the drive, so Alfred was, too. But when he pulled up to the old house where he was living, he rested his gloved hands on the steering wheel.

     "It isn't just Viktor. For your sake, don't let on that you're doing it. It's better for you if no one knows you've ever even spoken to me."

     "Why ever not?"

     Ivan’s smile was wintry.

_"I'm an ex-con. I did time for rape."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed today's chapter! and hopefully, you'll stick around to hear why Ivan is an ex-con :o 'till next time!


	3. Innocence

     Afterward, Alfred kicked himself for simply getting out of the truck without saying a word in response to his bold statement, but at the time he had been shocked to the core and incapable of a response. Rape! The crime was repulsive. It was unbelievable. He had actually kissed him! He'd been so stunned that he'd merely nodded goodbye to Ivan and told Viktor that he'd see him that night, then go in the house without thanking them for all their help and trouble.

 

     Now reality set in. Standing alone in the old-fashioned kitchen, he watched Coco hungrily lapping milk from his saucer while he considered the man and his statement. He abruptly snorted.

 

     “Hogwash!” Ugh, he started to sound like his mother now, “If that man's a rapist, I'll boil you for supper, Coco!”

 

     Coco looked remarkably unconcerned, which to Alfred indicated that the cat agreed with his judgment, and he had a high opinion of Coco's ability to know what was best for himself. This brought up new and interesting thoughts, Alfred knew homophobia was looked down upon in Russia, so he wondered if he had just met the only gay Russian man in all of Montana. And then there was the whole conviction of rape.

 

     After all, Ivan hadn't said that he'd committed rape. He'd said that he had served time in prison for rape. When Alfred thought of the way both Braginsky's automatically and bitterly accepted that they would be shunned because of their Russian blood, he wondered if perhaps the fact that Ivan was Russian figured in his conviction. But he hadn't done it. Alfred knew that as well as he knew his own face. The man who had helped him out of a bad situation warmed his cold hands against his own body and kissed him with burning male hunger, simply wasn't the type of man who could hurt someone like that. He was the one who had halted before those kisses had gone too far; Alfred had already been putty in his hands.

 

     It was ridiculous. There was no way he was a rapist. Oh, perhaps it hadn't been any great hardship for Ivan to stop kissing him; after all, he was mousy and inexperienced and would never be sexy, but... His thoughts trailed off as remembered sensations intruded. He was inexperienced, but he wasn't stupid. Ivan had been—well, hard. Alfred had distinctly felt it. Perhaps he hadn't had an outlet for his physical appetites lately and the prim little school teacher had been handy, but still, Ivan hadn't taken advantage of him. He hadn't treated Alfred with a sailor's attitude that any port in a storm would suffice. What was that awful term Alfred had heard one of his students use once? Oh, yes—horny. He could accept that Ivan Braginsky had been in that condition and Alfred had accidentally stirred his fire in some way that still remained a mystery to him, but the bottom line was that he hadn't pushed his advantage. What if he had?

 

     Alfred's heart started a strong, heavy beat, and heat crept through him, while an achy, restless feeling settled low inside. His nipples tightened and began throbbing, and automatically he pressed his palms over them before he realized what he was doing and jerked his hands down. But what if Ivan had touched them? What if Ivan had put his mouth on them? He felt as if he would melt now, just thinking about him. Fantasizing. Alfred pressed his thighs together, trying to ease the hollow ache, and a whimper escaped his lips as he realized that he was hard. The sound was low but seemed inordinately loud in the silent house, and the cat looked up from his saucer, gave a questioning meow, then returned to the milk.

 

     Would Alfred have been able to stop him? Would he even have tried to stop him? Or would he now be standing here remembering making love instead of trying to imagine how it would be? His body tingled but from barely awakened instincts and needs rather than true knowledge.

 

     He had never before known passion, other than the passion for knowledge and teaching. To find his body capable of such strong sensations was frightening because he had thought he knew himself well. Suddenly his own flesh was alien to him, and his thoughts and emotions were abruptly unruly. It was almost like a betrayal.

 

     Why this was lust! He, Alfred F. Jones, actually lusted after a man! Not just any man, either. Ivan Braginsky.

 

     It was both amazing and embarrassing.

* * *

 

     Viktor proved a quick, able student, as Alfred had known he would be. He was prompt, arriving right on time, and thankfully alone. After stewing over the morning's events for the entire afternoon, Alfred didn't think he could ever face Ivan Braginsky again. What must Ivan think of him? To his mind, he had practically attacked the man.

 

     But Viktor was alone, and in the three hours that followed, Alfred found himself liking him more and more.

 

     Viktor was hungry for knowledge and absorbed it like a dry sponge. While he worked on the assignments Alfred had set out for him, he prepared a set of records in which to keep the time the boy spent on each subject, the matter covered and his test scores. The goal they had set for themselves was much higher than just a high school diploma. Though Alfred hadn't promised it, he knew he wouldn't be satisfied unless Viktor was accepted into the Air Force Academy. There had been something in his eyes that told Alfred he would never be complete unless he could fly; he was like a grounded eagle, his soul yearning for the sky.

 

     At nine o'clock Alfred called a halt and noted the time in his records. Viktor yawned as he rocked the chair onto its back legs.

 

     "How often do we do this?"

 

     "Every night, if you can," Alfred replied.

 

     "At least until you catch up with the rest of your class." Viktor' pale, blue-diamond eyes glittered at him, and again he was struck by how old those eyes were.

 

     "Do I have to go back to regular classrooms next year?"

 

     "It would help if you did. You'd be able to get much more work done, and we could do your advanced studies here."

 

     "I'll think about it. I don't want to leave Dad in the lurch. We're expanding the ranch now, and it means a lot more work. We have more horses now than we've ever had before."

 

     "Do you raise horses?"

 

     "Quarter horses. Good ranch horses, trained to handle cattle. We not only breed them, but people bring their own horses to the ranch for Dad to train. He's not just good, he's the best. Folks don't mind that he's a Russian when it comes to training their horses."

 

     Again, the bitterness was apparent. Alfred propped his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on his upraised, folded hands.

 

     "And you?"

 

     "I'm Russian, too, Mr. Jones and that's more than enough for most people. It wasn't as bad when I was younger, but a Russian kid isn't much of a threat to anyone. It's when that kid grows up and starts looking at the American daughters that all hell breaks loose."

 

     So, a girl had been part of the reason Viktor had quit school. Alfred raised his eyebrows at him.

 

     "I imagine the American daughters looked back, too." He said mildly.

 

     "You're very good-looking." Viktor almost grinned at him.

 

     "Yeah. That and two bits will get me a cup of coffee."

 

      "So, they looked back?"

 

     "And flirted. One acted like she really cared something about me. But when I asked her to a dance, the door was slammed in my face right quick. I guess it's okay to flirt with me, sort of like waving a red flag at a bull from a safe distance, but there was no way she was actually going to go out with a Russian."

 

     "I'm sorry." Without thinking, Alfred reached out and covered Viktor' strong young hand with his own.

 

     "Is that when you quit school?"

 

     "There didn't seem to be any point in going. Don't think I was serious about her, or anything like that, because it hadn't gotten that far. I was just interested in her. But the whole thing made it plain that I was never going to fit in, that none of those girls would ever go out with me."

 

     "So, what did you plan on doing? Working on the ranch for the rest of your life and never dating, never getting married?"

 

     "I'm sure not thinking of getting married!" He said strongly, "As for the rest of it, there are other towns, bigger towns. The ranch is doing pretty good now, and we have a little extra money."

 

     Viktor didn't add that he'd lost his virginity two years before, on a trip to one of those bigger towns. He didn't want to shock Alfred, and he was certain he would be shocked if he had any idea of his experience. The new teacher wasn't just prim, he was innocent. It made him feel oddly protective. That, and the fact that Alfred was different from the other teachers he'd known. When he looked at Viktor, he saw him, Viktor Braginsky, not the Russian face and black hair of a half-breed. He had looked into his eyes and seen the dream, the obsession he'd always had with planes and flying.

 

     After Viktor had left, Alfred locked the house and got ready for bed. It had been a tumultuous day for him, but it was a long time before he slept, and then he overslept the next morning. He deliberately kept himself busy that day, not giving himself time to moon over Ivan Braginsky, or fantasies about things that hadn't happened. He mopped and waxed until the old house was shiny, then dragged out the boxes of books he had brought from LA. Books always gave a house a lived-in look. To his frustration, however, there was no place to put them. What he needed was some of that portable shelving; if all it required for assembly was a screwdriver, he should be able to put it up himself. With his customary decisiveness, he made plans to check at the general store the next afternoon. If they didn't have what he needed, he would buy some lumber and hire someone to build some shelves.

 

     At lunch on Monday Alfred made a call to the state board of education to find out what he had to do to make certain Viktor' studies would be accepted toward his diploma. He knew he had the qualifications, but there was also a good deal of paperwork to be done before Viktor could earn the necessary credits by private tutoring. Alfred made the call on the pay phone in the tiny teacher's lounge, which was never used because there were only three teachers, each teaching four grades, and there was never any time for a break. Nevertheless, it had three chairs and a table, a tiny, dented refrigerator, an automatic coffee maker and the pay phone. It was so unusual for any of the teachers to use the lounge that Alfred was surprised when the door opened and Sharon Wycliffe, who taught grades one through four, poked her head in.

 

     "Alfred, are you feeling sick or anything?"

 

     "No, I'm fine." Alfred stood and dusted off his hands. The receiver had carried a grey coating, evidence of how often it was used.

 

     "I was making a call."

 

     "Oh. I just wondered. You'd been in here a long time, and I thought you might not be feeling well. Who were you calling?"

 

     The question was asked without any hesitancy. Sharon had been born in Calais, had gone to school here, had married a local boy. Everyone in Calais knew every one of the other one hundred and eighty inhabitants; they all knew each other's business and saw nothing unusual about it. Small towns were merely large extended families. Alfred wasn't taken aback by Sharon's open curiosity, having already experienced it.

 

     "The state board. I needed some information on teaching requirements."

 

     Sharon looked alarmed.

 

     "Do you think you aren't properly certified? If there's any trouble, the school board will likely commit mass suicide. You don't know how hard it is to find a teacher with the proper qualifications willing to come to a town as small as Calais. They were almost at the panic stage when you were located. The kids were going to have to start going to school over sixty miles away."

 

     "No, it isn't that. I thought I might begin private tutoring if any of the kids need it."

 

     He didn't mention Viktor Braginsky, because he couldn't forget the warnings both he and his father had given him.

 

     "Thank goodness it isn't bad news," Sharon exclaimed.

 

     "I'd better get back to the kids before they get into trouble."

 

     With a wave and a smile, she withdrew her head, her curiosity satisfied.

     Alfred hoped Sharon didn't mention it to Dottie Lancaster, the teacher who taught grades five through eight, but he knew it was a futile hope. Eventually, everything in Calais became common knowledge. Sharon was warm and full of good humor with her young charges, and Alfred's teaching style was rather relaxed, too, but Dottie was strict and abrupt with the students. It made Alfred uncomfortable, because he sensed Dottie regarded her job as merely a job, something that was necessary but not enjoyed. He had even heard that Dottie, who was fifty-five, was thinking about an early retirement. For all Dottie's shortcomings, that would certainly upset the local school board, because as Sharon had pointed out, it was almost impossible to get a teacher to relocate to Calais. The town was just too small and too far away from everything.

 

     As he taught the last classes of the day, Alfred found himself studying the young girls and wondering which one had daringly flirted with Viktor Braginsky, then retreated when he had actually asked her out. Several of the girls were very attractive and flirtatious, and though they had the shallowness typical of teenagers, they all seemed likable. But which one would have attracted Viktor, who wasn't shallow, whose eyes were far too old for a sixteen-year-old boy?

     Natalie Ulrich, who was tall and graceful? Pamela Hearst, who had the sort of blond good looks that belonged on a California beach? Or maybe it was Jackie Baugh, with her dark, sultry eyes. It could be any of the eight girls in his classes, he realized. They were used to being pursued, having had the stupendous good luck to be outnumbered, nine to eight, by the boys. They were all flirts. So, which one was it?

 

     Alfred wondered why it mattered, but it did. One of these girls, though she hadn't broken Viktor' heart, had nevertheless dealt him what could have been a life-destroying blow. Viktor had taken it as the final proof that he'd never have a place in the white man's world, and he'd withdrawn. He still might never re-enter this school, but at least he'd agreed to be tutored. If only he didn't lose hope.

 

     When school was out, Alfred swiftly gathered all the materials he would need that night, as well as the papers he had to grade, and hurried to his car. It was only a short drive to Hearst's General Store, and when he asked, Mr. Hearst kindly directed him to the stacks of shelving in a corner.

 

     A few minutes later the door opened to admit another customer. Alfred saw Ivan as soon as he entered the store; Alfred had been examining the shelving, but it was as if his skin was an alarm system, signaling his nearness. His nerves tingled, the hair at the nape of his neck bristled, he looked up, and there he was. Instantly Alfred shivered, and his nipples tightened. Distress at that uncontrollable response sent blood rushing to his face.

 

     With his peripheral vision, he saw Mr. Hearst stiffen, and for the first time, he truly believed the things Ivan had told him about the way he was regarded in town. He hadn't done anything, hadn't said anything, but it was obvious Mr. Hearst wasn't happy to have him in the store.

 

     Quickly Alfred turned back to the shelving. He couldn't look him in the eye. His face heated even more when he thought of the way he'd acted, throwing himself at him like a sex-starved old maid. It didn't help his feelings that Ivan probably thought he was a sex-starved old maid; he couldn't argue with the old maid part, but he had never paid much attention to the other until Ivan had taken him in his arms. When he thought of the things he had done...

 

     Alfred's face was on fire. His body was on fire. There was no way he could talk to him. What must Ivan think of him? With fierce concentration, Alfred read the instructions on the box of shelving and pretended he hadn't seen him enter the store.

 

     He had read the instructions three times before he realized he was acting just like the people Ivan had described: too good to speak to him, disdaining to acknowledge knowing him. Alfred was normally even-tempered, but suddenly rage filled him, and it was rage at himself. What sort of person was he?

 

     Alfred jerked the box of shelving toward him and nearly staggered under the unexpected weight. Just as he turned, Ivan laid a box of nails on the checkout counter and reached in his pocket for his wallet.

     Mr. Hearst glanced briefly at Ivan; then his eyes cut to where Alfred was struggling with the box.

 

     "Here, Mr. Jones, let me get that." He said, rushing from behind the counter to grab the box. He grunted as he hefted it in his arms.

 

     "Can't have you wrestling with something this heavy. Why you might hurt yourself."

 

      Alfred wondered how the man thought he would get it from his car into his house if he didn't handle it himself, but refrained from pointing that out. Alfred followed him back to the counter, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, looked up at Ivan and said clearly.

 

     "Hello, Mr. Braginsky. How are you?" Ivan’s dark-violet eyes glittered, perhaps in warning.

 

     "Mr. Jones." He said in brief acknowledgment, touching the brim of his hat with his fingers, but he refused to respond to his polite inquiry.

 

     Mr. Hearst looked sharply at Alfred.

 

     "You know him, Mr. Jones?"

 

     "Indeed, I do. He rescued me Saturday when my car broke down and I was stranded in the snow." He kept his voice clear and strong.

 

     Mr. Hearst darted a suspicious look at Ivan.

 

     "Humph." He said, then reached for the box of shelving to ring it up.

 

     "Excuse me." Alfred said, "Mr. Braginsky was here first."

 

     He heard Ivan mutter a curse under his breath, or at least he thought it was a curse. Mr. Hearst turned red.

 

     "I don't mind waiting," Ivan said tightly.

 

     "I wouldn't dream of cutting in front of you." Alfred folded his hands at his waist and pursed his lips.

 

     "I couldn't be that rude."

 

     Ivan shook his head and gave Alfred a disbelieving look.

 

     "Are you serious?"

 

      Mr. Hearst glared at him.

 

     "Don't take that tone with him, _you commie_." His voice pure with venom.

 

     "Now, just a minute." Controlling his outrage, Alfred shook his finger at him.

 

     "That was rude and entirely uncalled for. Why, your mother would be ashamed of you, Mr. Hearst. Didn't she teach you better than that?" He turned even redder.

 

     "She taught me just fine." He mumbled, staring at his finger.

 

      There was something about a schoolteacher's finger; it had an amazing, mystical power. It made grown men quail before it. Alfred had noticed the effect before and decided that a schoolteacher's finger was an extension of Mother's finger, and as such, it wielded unknown authority. Women grew out of the feeling of guilt and helplessness brought on by that accusing finger, perhaps because most of them became mothers and developed their own powerful finger, but men never did. Mr. Hearst was no exception. He looked as if he wanted to crawl under his own counter.

 

     "Then I'm certain you'll want to make her proud of you," Alfred said in his most austere voice.

 

     "After you, Mr. Braginsky."

 

     Ivan made a sound that was almost a growl, but Alfred stared at him until he jerked the money from his wallet and threw it on the counter. Without another word, Mr. Hearst rang up the nails and made gave change. Equally silent, Ivan grabbed the box of nails, spun on his heel and left the store.

 

     "Thank you.''

 

     Alfred said, finally relenting and bestowing a forgiving smile on Mr. Hearst.

 

     "I knew you would understand how important it is to me that I be treated fairly. I don't wish to take advantage of my position as a teacher here."

 

     He made it sound as if being a teacher was at least as important as being queen, but Mr. Hearst only nodded, too relieved to pursue the matter. He took his money and dutifully carried the box of shelving out to his car, where he stored it in the trunk for him.

 

     "Thank you." He said again.

 

     "By the way, Pamela—she is your daughter, isn't she?" Mr. Hearst looked worried.

 

     "Yes, she is." Pam was his youngest, and the apple of his eye.

 

     "She's a lovely girl and a good student. I just wanted you to know that she's doing well in school." His face was wreathed in smiles as Alfred drove away.

 

     Ivan pulled over at the corner and watched his rearview mirror, waiting for Alfred to exit the store. He was so angry he wanted to shake the younger man until his teeth rattled, and that made him even angrier because he knew he wouldn't do it.

     Damn him! Ivan had warned him, but he hadn't listened. Not only had he made it plain they were acquainted, but he had also outlined the circumstances of their meeting and then championed him in a way that wouldn't go unnoticed. Hadn't Alfred understood when he'd told him he was an ex-con, and why? Did he think he'd been joking?

     Ivan's hands clenched around the steering wheel. Alfred had his hair tucked up under that stupid hat again, but he remembered how he had looked with his hair down, wearing Viktor' old jeans that had clung tightly to his slender legs and hips. He remembered the way passion had glazed his eyes when he'd kissed him. Ivan remembered the softness of his lips, though he had had them pressed together in a ridiculously prim expression. 

     If he had any sense he'd just drive away. If he stayed completely away from Alfred, there wouldn't be anything for people to talk about other than the fact that he was tutoring Viktor, and that would be bad enough in their eyes. 

     But how would he get that box out of the car and into the house when he got home? It probably weighed as much as he did. He would just carry the box in for him, and at the same time peel a strip off his hide for not listening to him. 

      Oh, hell, who was he fooling? He'd had a taste of those lips, and he wanted more. He was a frumpy old maid teacher, but his skin was as pale and translucent as a baby's, and his slender body would be soft, gently curving under his hands. He wanted to touch him. After kissing him, holding him, Ivan hadn't gone to see Toris because he hadn't been able to get the feel of Alfred Jones out of his mind, off of his body. He still ached. His physical frustration was painful, and it was going to get worse because if he'd ever known anything, it was that Mr. Alfred Jones wasn't for him. 

     Alfred's car pulled out from in front of the store and passed him. Smothering another curse, he put the truck in gear and slowly followed him. Alfred maintained a sedate pace, following the two-lane highway out of town, then turning off on the narrow secondary road that led to his house. He had to see Ivan's truck behind his, but he didn't give any indication that he knew he was being followed. Instead, he drove straight to his house, carefully turned in at the snow-packed driveway and guided the car around to his customary parking spot behind the house.

     Ivan shook his head as he pulled in behind him and got out of the truck. Alfred was already out of his car, and he smiled at him as he fished the house key out of his pocket. Didn't he remember what he'd told him? Ivan couldn't believe that he'd told Alfred he'd served time for rape and still he greeted him as calmly as if he were a priest, though they were the only two people for miles around. 

     "Damn it all, малыш!" Ivan barked at him, his strong legs carrying him to Alfred in a few strides.

     "Didn't you listen to anything I said Saturday?"

     "Yes, of course, I listened. That doesn't mean I agreed." Alfred unlocked the trunk and smiled at him. 

     "While you're here, would you please carry this box in for me? I'd really appreciate it."

     "That's why I stopped." Ivan snapped. "I knew you couldn't handle it."

     His ill temper didn't seem to faze Alfred. He merely smiled at him again as he lifted the box onto his shoulder, then led the way to the back door and opened it.

     The first thing Ivan noticed was that the house had a fresh, sweet smell to it, instead of the musty smell of an old house that had stood empty for a long time. His head lifted, and against his will, he inhaled the faint scent.

     "What's that smell?"

 

     Alfred stopped and sniffed delicately.

 

     "What smell?"

 

     "That sweet smell. Like flowers."

 

     "Flowers? Oh, that must be the lilac sachet I put in all the drawers to freshen them. So many of the sachets are overpowering, but the lilacs are just right, don't you think?"

 

     Ivan didn't know anything about sachets, whatever they were, but if Alfred put them in all the drawers, then his underwear must smell like lilacs, too. His sheets would smell like lilacs and the warm scent of his body. Ivan's body responded strongly to the thought, and he cursed, then set the box down with a thud. Though the house was chilly, he felt sweat break out on his forehead.

 

     "Let me turn up the heat," Alfred said, ignoring his cursing.

 

     "The furnace is old and noisy, but I don't have any wood for the fireplace, so it'll have to do." As he spoke, he left the kitchen and turned down a hallway, his voice growing fainter. Then he was back, and he smiled at Ivan again.

 

     "It'll be warm in just a minute. Would you like a cup of tea?" After giving him a measuring look.

 

     "Make that coffee. You don't look like a tea-drinking man."

 

     He was already warm. He was burning up. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the kitchen table.

 

     "Don't you know everybody in that town will be talking about you now? малыш, I'm Indian, and I'm an ex-con—"

 

     "Alfred." He interrupted briskly.

 

     "What?"

 

     "My name is Alfred, not 'малыш'. Alfred Freedom Jones."

 

      He added the second name out of habit because his Grandma had always called him by both names.

      Ivan rolled his eyes. Of course, his middle name was freedom. _Americans_.

 

     "Are you certain you don't want coffee? I need something to warm up my insides." Ivan's hat joined the gloves, and he raked an impatient hand through his hair.

 

     "All right. Coffee."

 

     Alfred turned to run the water and measure the coffee, using the activity to hide the sudden color in his face. Ivan's hair. He felt stupid, but he'd hardly noticed his hair before. Maybe he'd been too upset, then too bemused, or maybe it was just that Ivan's dark violet eyes had taken his attention, but he hadn't noticed before how long his hair was. It was thick and silver and shiny and touched his broad shoulders. He looked magnificently pagan; Alfred had immediately pictured him with his powerful chest and legs bare, his body covered only by a breechclout or loincloth, and his pulse rate had gone wild.

 

     Ivan didn't sit down but propped his strong body against the cabinet beside him. Alfred kept his head down, hoping his blush would subside. What was it about the man that the mere sight of him triggered erotic fantasies? He had certainly never had any fantasies before, erotic or otherwise. He had never before looked at a man and wondered what he looked like nude, but the thought of Ivan nude made him ache inside, made his hands itch to touch him.

 

     "What the hell are you doing letting me even come to your house, let alone inviting me to have coffee?" Ivan asked in a low, rough voice.

 

     Alfred blinked at him, his expression startled.

 

     "Why shouldn't I?" He thought he might explode with frustration.

 

     "малыш—"

 

     "Alfred."

     His big fists clenched.

 

     "Alfred. Don't you have any better sense than to let an ex-con into your house?"

 

     "Oh, that." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

 

     "It would be wise to follow your advice if you were truly a criminal, but since you didn't do it, I don't think that applies in this instance. Besides, if you were a criminal, you wouldn't give me that advice."

 

     Ivan couldn't believe the casual way he disregarded any possibility of his guilt.

 

     "How do you know I didn't do it?"

 

     "You just didn't."

 

     "Do you have any reason for your deduction, Sherlock, or are you going on good old intuition?" Alfred jerked around and glared at him.

 

     "I don't believe a rapist would have handled me as tenderly as you—as you handled me." He said, his voice tapering off into a whisper, and the color surged back into his face. Mortified by the stupid way he continued to blush, he slapped his palms to his face in an effort to hide the betraying color.

 

     Ivan clenched his teeth, partly because Alfred was American and therefore not for him, partly because he was so damned innocent, and partly because he wanted so fiercely to touch Alfred that his entire body ached.

 

     "Don't build any dreams because I kissed you Saturday." He said harshly, "I've been too long without a man, and I'm—"

 

     "Horny?" Alfred supplied. Ivan was staggered by the incongruity of that word coming from his prim mouth.

 

     "What?"

 

     "Horny." He said again, "I've heard some of my students say it. It means—"

 

     "I know what it means!"

 

     "Oh. Well, is that what you were? Still are, for all I know." He wanted to laugh. The urge almost overpowered him, but he changed the sound into a cough.

 

     "Yeah, I still am." Alfred looked sympathetic.

 

     "I know that can be quite a problem."

 

     "It's hard on a guy."

 

     It took a moment, but then Alfred's eyes widened, and before he could stop himself, his gaze had slid down Ivan's body. Instantly he jerked his head back up.

 

     "Oh. I see. I mean—I understand."

 

     The need to touch him was suddenly so strong that Ivan had to give in to it, had to touch him in even the smallest way. He put his hands-on Alfred's shoulders, savoring his softness, the delicacy of his joints under his palms.

 

     "I don't think you do understand. You can't associate with me and still work in this town. At best, you'd be treated like a leper or a slut. You would probably lose your job."

 

     At that, Alfred pressed his lips together, and a militant light came into his eyes.

 

     "I'd like to see someone try to fire me for associating with a law-abiding, tax-paying citizen. I refuse to pretend I don't know you."

 

     "There's knowing, and there's knowing. It would be bad enough for you to be friends with me. Sleeping with me would make your life here impossible." He felt Alfred stiffen under his hands.

 

     "I don't believe I've asked to sleep with you." He said, but the color rose in his face again. He hadn't actually said the words, but Ivan knew he certainly had thought about what it would be like.

 

     "You asked, all right, but you're so damned innocent you didn't realize what you were doing," Ivan muttered.

 

     "I could crawl on top of you right now, малыш, and I'd do it if you had any real idea of what you're asking for. But the last thing I want is to have some prissy little American screaming 'rape' at me. Believe me, a Russian doesn't get the benefit of the doubt."

 

     "I wouldn't do anything like that!"

 

     Ivan smiled grimly.

 

     "Yeah, I've heard that before. I'm probably the only man who has ever kissed you, and you think you'd like more, don't you? But sex isn't pretty and romantic, it's hot and sweaty, and you probably wouldn't like the first time at all. So, do me a favor and find some other guinea pig. I have enough troubles without adding you to the list."

 

     Alfred jerked away from him, pressing his lips firmly together and blinking his eyes as fast as he could to keep the tears from falling. Not for anything would he let Ivan make him cry.

 

     "I'm sorry I gave you that impression," Alfred said, his voice stifled but even.

 

     "It's true I've never been kissed before, but I'm sure you aren't surprised by that. If my—my response was out of line, I apologize. It won't happen again." He turned briskly to the cabinet.

 

     "The coffee is ready. How do you take yours?" A muscle jerked in Ivan's jaw, and he grabbed his hat.

 

     "Forget the coffee." He muttered as he jammed the hat on his head and reached for his gloves.

 

     Alfred didn't look at him.

 

     "Very well. Goodbye, Mr. Braginsky." Ivan slammed out the door, and Alfred stood there with an empty coffee cup in his hand. If it really was goodbye, he didn't know how he would be able to stand it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Till next time! please leave comments to know how I'm doing!


	4. Protection

 

Alfred wasn't weak-willed, and he refused to give in to the desolation that filled him every time he thought of that horrible day. During the days he prodded, cajoled and enticed his students toward knowledge; at night, he watched Viktor devour the facts he spread before him. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and he not only caught up with the students in his regular classes, but he also passed them.

 

     Alfred had written his letters to the Montana members of Congress, and had also written to a friend for all the information he could find on the Air Force Academy. When the package came, he gave it to Viktor and watched his eyes take on that fiercely intent, enthralled look he got whenever he thought of flying. Working with Viktor was a joy; Alfred's only problem was that he reminded him so strongly of his father.

 

     It wasn't that he missed Ivan; how could he miss someone he had seen only twice? Ivan hadn't embedded himself in his daily routine so that his life seemed empty without him. But while he had been with him, he had felt more vividly alive than he ever had before. With Ivan, he hadn't been Alfred Jones, old maid, he had been Alfred Jones, man. Ivan's intense masculinity had reached parts of him that he hadn't known existed, bringing to life dormant yearnings and emotions. He argued with himself that what he felt was plain old garden-variety lust, but that didn't stop the ache he felt whenever he thought of him. Even worse was his humiliation because his inexperience had been so obvious, and now he knew Ivan thought of him as a sex-starved old maid.

 

     It was April before the inevitable happened and word got out that Viktor Braginsky was spending a lot of time at the new teacher's house. At first, Alfred wasn't aware of the rumor flying through the town, though the kids in his classes had been watching him strangely, and there had been a lot of whispering. Sharon Wycliffe and Dottie Lancaster, the other two teachers, also took to giving him odd looks and whispering to each other. It didn't take Alfred long to decide that the secret was no longer secret, but he went about his business with a serene smile. He had already received a favorable letter from a senator, signaling his interest in Viktor, and despite his own arguments for caution, his spirits were high.

 

      The school board's regular meeting was scheduled for the third week in April. The afternoon of the meeting, Sharon, with elaborate casualness, asked Alfred if he planned to attend. Alfred looked at her in surprise.

 

     "Of course. I thought all of us were expected to attend on a regular basis."

 

      "Well, yes. It's just that—I thought—"

 

      "You thought I would avoid the meeting now that everyone knows I've been teaching Viktor Braginsky?" Alfred asked directly.

 

     Sharon's mouth fell open.

 

     "What?" Her voice was weak.

 

      "You didn't know? Well, it isn't an earth-shattering secret." He shrugged.

 

     "Viktor thought people would be upset if I tutored him, so I haven't said anything. From the way everyone has been acting, I thought the cat was out of the bag."

 

     "I think it was the wrong cat," Sharon admitted sheepishly.

 

     "His truck was seen at your house at night and people—um—got the wrong idea." Alfred felt blank.

 

     "What 'wrong' idea?"

 

     "Well, he's big for his age and all." Still, Alfred didn't understand, until Sharon blushed hotly. Then comprehension burst on his brain like a flash, and horror filled him, followed swiftly by anger.

 

      "They think I'm having an affair with a sixteen-year-old... boy?" His voice rose with each word.

 

     "It was late at night when his truck was seen," Sharon added, looking miserable.

 

     "Viktor leaves promptly at nine o'clock. Someone's idea of 'late' differs from mine."

 

     Alfred stood and began shoving papers into his tote, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks white. The awful thing was that he had to simmer until seven o'clock that night, but he didn't think waiting would cool his temper. If anything, pressure would build. He felt savage, not only because his reputation had been impugned, but because Viktor had also been attacked. He was trying desperately to make his dreams come true, and people were trying to tear him down. Alfred wasn't a hen fussing with one chick; he was a tiger with one cub, and that cub had been threatened. It didn't matter that the cub was seven inches taller than him and outweighed him by almost eighty pounds; Viktor, for all his unusual maturity, was still young and vulnerable. The father had disdained his protection, but there was no power on earth that could stop him from defending the son.

 

Evidently, word had spread, because the school board meeting was unusually crowded that night. There were six members of the board: Mr. Hearst, who owned the general store; Francie Beecham, an eighty-one-year-old former teacher; Walton Isby, the bank president; Harlon Keschel, who owned the combination drugstore/hamburger joint; Eli Baugh, a local rancher whose daughter, Jackie, was in Alfred's class; and Cicely Karr, who owned the service station. All of the board members were solid members of the small community, all of them property owners, and all of them except Francie Beecham had stony faces.

 

      The board meeting was held in Dottie's classroom, and extra desks were brought from Alfred's classroom so there would be enough seats for everyone, an indication of how many people felt it necessary to attend. Alfred was certain that at least one parent of each of his students was present. As He entered the room, every eye turned toward him. The women looked indignant; the men looked both hostile and speculative, and that made Alfred even angrier. What right did they have to look down on him for his supposed sins, while at the same time they were wondering about the details?

 

     Leaning against the wall was a tall man in a khaki deputy sheriff's uniform, watching him with narrowed eyes, and he wondered if they meant to have him arrested for sexual misconduct. It was ridiculous! If he had looked anything other than exactly what he was, a slight, mousy old maid, their suspicions would at least have made more sense. Alfred poked an errant strand of hair back into his ever-present hat, sat down and folded his arms, intending to let them make the first move.

 

     Walton Isby cleared his throat and called the meeting to order, no doubt feeling the importance of his position with so many people present to watch the proceedings. Alfred drummed his fingers on his arm. The board went through the routine of its normal business, and suddenly he decided he wasn't going to wait. The best defense, he'd read, was an attack.

 

      When the normal business was finished, Mr. Isby cleared his throat again, and Alfred took it as a signal that they were about to get down to the real purpose of the meeting. He rose to his feet and said clearly.

 

 

     "Mr. Isby, before you continue, I have an announcement to make." He looked startled, and his florid face turned even redder.

 

     "This is—uh, well, irregular, Mr. Jones." "It's also important."

 

      Alfred kept his voice at the level he used when lecturing and turned so he could see the entire room. The deputy straightened from his position against the wall as everyone's attention locked on Alfred like a magnet to a steel bar.

 

     "I'm certified to tutor pupils privately, and the credits they earn in private lessons are as legitimate as those earned in a public classroom. For the past month, I've been tutoring Viktor Braginsky in my home—"

 

      "I'll just bet you have." Someone muttered, and Alfred's eyes flashed.

 

     "Who said that?" He demanded crisply.

 

     "It was incredibly vulgar." The room fell silent.

 

     "When I saw Viktor Braginsky's school records, I was outraged that a student of his intelligence had quit school. Perhaps none of you know it, but he was at the top of his class. I contacted him and persuaded him to take lessons to catch up to his classmates, and in one month he has not only caught them, but he has also surpassed them. I have also been in contact with Senator Allard, who has expressed an interest in Viktor. Viktor' strong academic standing has made him a candidate for recommendation to the Air Force Academy. He's an honor to the community, and I know all of you will give him your support."

 

     Alfred was gratified to see the stunned looks in the room and sat down with the cool poise his Grandma had tirelessly drummed into him. Only rabble got into brawls, Grandma had said; a gentleman could make his point in other ways.

 

     Whispers rustled through the room as people put their heads together, and Mr. Isby shuffled the three sheets of paper in front of him as he searched for something to say. The other members of the board put their heads together, too.

 

      Alfred looked around the room, and a shadow in the hall beyond the open door caught his attention. It was only a slight movement; if he hadn't looked at precisely that second, he would have missed it. As it was, it took him a moment to make out the outline of a man, and his skin tingled. Ivan. He was out in the hall, listening. It was the first-time Alfred had seen him since the day he'd come to his house, and even though all he could see was a darker outline against the shadows, his heart began to pound.

 

     Mr. Isby cleared his throat, and the murmuring in the room settled down.

 

     "That is good news, Mr. Jones." He began.

 

      "However, we don't think you've given the best appearance as an example to our young people—"

 

     "Speak for yourself, Walton." Francie Beecham said testily, her voice cracking with old age. Alfred stood again.

 

     "In precisely what way have I given the wrong appearance?"

 

     "It doesn't look right to have that boy in your house all hours of the night!"

 

     Mr. Hearst snapped.

 

     "Viktor leaves my home at exactly nine o'clock, after three hours of lessons. What is your definition of 'all hours of the night'? However, if the board doesn't approve of the location, I take it all are agreed that the schoolhouse will be used for night classes? I have no objection to moving the lessons here."

 

     Mr. Isby, who was at heart a good-natured soul, looked harassed. The board members put their heads together again. After a minute of heated consultation, they looked up again. Harlon Keschel wiped his perspiring face with a handkerchief. Francie Beecham looked outraged. This time it was Cicely Karr who spoke.

 

     "Mr. Jones, this is a difficult situation. The odds against Viktor Braginsky being accepted into the Air Force Academy are high, I'm sure you'll admit, and that in Calais, we don't approve of your spending so much time alone with him."

 

     Alfred's chin lifted.

 

     "Why is that?"

 

     "Because you're a newcomer to this area, I'm sure you don't understand the way things are around here. The Braginsky’s have a bad reputation, and we fear for your safety if you continue to associate with the boy. Hell, who knows what those commie bastards are planning. You see every day in the new what these Russians are doing! They cannot be trusted."

 

     "Mrs. Karr, that's hogwash."

 

       Alfred replied with inelegant candor. Grandma wouldn't have approved. He thought of Ivan standing out in the hallway listening to these people slandering both him and his son, and he could almost feel the heat of his temper. Ivan wouldn't let it hurt him, but it hurt him to know he was hearing it.

 

     "Ivan Braginsky helped me out of a dangerous situation when my car broke down and I was stranded in the snow. He was kind and considerate and refused payment for repairing my car. Viktor Braginsky is an outstanding student who works hard on their ranch, doesn't drink or carouse—" He hoped that was true. "—and has never been anything but respectful. I consider both of them my friends, regardless of where Ivan came from. It’s time to put this petty nationalism aside and realize that the Braginsky’s are good people."

 

      In the hallway, the man standing in the shadows knotted his fists. Damn the little fool, didn't he know this would probably cost him his job? Ivan knew that if he stepped into that room all the hostility would instantly be focused on him, and he started to move, to draw their attention away from Alfred when he heard him speak again. Didn't he know when to shut up?

 

     "I would be as concerned if any of your children dropped out of school. I can't bear to see a young person give up on the future. Ladies and gentlemen, I was hired to teach. I intend to do that to the best of my ability. All of you are good people. Would any of you want me to give up if it were your child?"

 

     Several people looked away and cleared their throats. Cicely Karr merely raised her chin.

 

      "You're sidestepping the point, Mr. Jones. This isn't one of our children. This is Viktor Braginsky. He's... he's—"

 

     "Russian?" Alfred supplied, lifting his brow in question.

 

     "Well, yes. That's part of it. The other part is his father—"

 

     "What about his father?" Ivan had to stifle a curse, and he started to step forward again when Alfred asked scornfully.

 

     "Are you concerned because of his prison sentence?"

 

     "That's cause enough, I should think!"

 

     "Should you? Why?"

 

     "Cicely, sit down and hush." Francie Beecham snapped.

 

     "The boy has a point, and I agree. If you start trying to think at this stage of your life, it could bring on hot flashes."

 

     Just for a moment there was stunned silence in the room; then it exploded in thunderous laughter. Rough ranchers and their hard-working wives held their stomachs as they bent double, tears running down their faces. Mr. Isby turned so red his face was almost purple; then he burst into a great whooping laugh that sounded like a hysterical crane laying eggs, or so Cicely Karr told him. Her face was red, too, from anger. Big Eli Baugh actually rolled out of his chair, he was laughing so hard. Cicely grabbed his hat from the back of his chair and hit him over the head with it. He continued to howl with laughter as he protected his head with his arms.

 

     "You can buy your motor oil from some other place from now on!" Cicely roared at Mr. Baugh, continuing to bash him with his hat.

 

     "And your gas! Don't you or any of your hands set foot on my property again!"

 

     "Now, Cicely."

 

      Eli choked as he tried to dodge his hat.

 

     "Folks, let's have some order in here."

 

     Harlon Keschel pleaded though he looked as if he were enjoying the spectacle of Cicely bashing Eli with his own hat. Certainly, everyone else in the room was. Almost everyone, Alfred thought, as he spotted Dottie Lancaster's cold face. Suddenly he realized that the other teacher would have been glad to see him fired, and he wondered why. He'd always tried to be friendly with Dottie, but the older woman had rebuffed all overtures. Had Dottie seen Viktor' truck at Alfred's house and started the gossip? Would Dottie have been out driving around at night? There were no other houses on Alfred's road, so no one would have been driving past to visit a neighbor.

 

      The uproar had died down, though there was still an occasional chuckle heard around the room. Mrs. Karr continued to glare at Eli Baugh, having for some reason made him the focal point of her embarrassed anger rather than turning it on Francie Beecham, who had started it all.

      Even Mr. Isby was still grinning as he raised his voice.

 

     "Let's see if we can get back to business here, folks."

 

     Francie Beecham piped up again.

 

      "I think we've handled enough business for the night. Mr. Jones is giving the Braginsky boy private school lessons so he can go to the Air Force Academy, and that's that. I'd do the same thing if I were still teaching." Mr. Hearst said.

 

     "It still doesn’t look right—"

 

     "Then he can use the classroom. Everyone agreed?"

 

      Francie looked at the other board members, her wrinkled face triumphant. She winked at Alfred.

 

     "It's okay by me." Eli Baugh said as he tried to reshape his hat.

 

     "The Air Force Academy—well, that's something. I don't reckon anyone from this county has ever been to any of the academies."

 

      Mr. Hearst and Mrs. Karr disagreed, but Mr. Isby and Harlon Keschel sided with Francie and Eli. Alfred stared hard at the shadowed hallway, but couldn't see anything now. Had he left? The deputy turned his head to see what he was looking at, but he didn't see anything, either, because he gave a slight shrug and looked back at Alfred, then winked. Alfred was startled. More people had winked at him that night than in the rest of his life total. What was the proper way to handle a wink? Were they ignored? Should he wink back? Grandma's lectures on proper behavior hadn't covered winking.

 

      The meeting broke up with a good deal of teasing and laughter, and more than a few of the parents took a moment to shake Alfred's hand and tell him he was doing a good job. It was half an hour before he was able to get his coat and make it to the door, and when he did, he found the deputy waiting for him.

 

      "I'll walk you to your car." He said in an easy tone.

 

     "I'm Clay Armstrong, the local deputy."

 

     "How do you do? Alfred Jones." He replied, holding out his hand.

 

     Clay took it, and Alfred's small hand disappeared in his big one. He set his hat on top of dark brown curly hair, but his blue eyes still twinkled, even in the shadow of the brim. Alfred liked him on sight. He was one of those strong, quiet men who were rock steady, but who had a good sense of humor. He'd been delighted by the uproar.

 

     "Everyone in town knows who you are. We don't often have a stranger move in, especially a young single man from a big city. The first day you were here, the whole county heard about your accent. Haven't you noticed that all the girls in school are trying to drawl?"

 

     "Are they?" Alfred asked in surprise.

 

     "They sure are."

 

     Clay slowed his walk to keep pace with him as they walked to his car. The cold air rushed at him, chilling him, but the night sky was crystal clear, and a thousand stars winked overhead in compensation.

     They reached his car.

 

     "Would you tell me something, Mr. Armstrong?"

 

     "Anything. And call me Clay."

 

 

      "Why did Mrs. Karr get so angry at Mr. Baugh, instead of at Miss Beecham? It was Miss Beecham who started the whole thing."

 

     "Cicely and Eli are first cousins. Cicely's folks died when she was young, and Eli's parents took her to raise. Well, Cicely and Eli are the same age, so they grew up together and fought like wildcats the whole time. Still do, I guess, but some families are like that. They're still pretty close."

 

     That kind of family was strange to Alfred, but it sounded warm and secure, too, to be able to fight with someone and know he still loved you.

 

     "So, she hit him for laughing at her?"

 

     "And because he was convenient. No one is going to get too angry with Miss Beecham. She taught all the adults in this county, and we all still think a lot of that old lady."

 

     "That sounds so nice," Alfred said, smiling.

 

     "I hope I'm still here when I'm that old."

 

     "Are you planning to raise Cain at school board meetings, too?"

 

     "I hope so." He repeated. Clay leaned down to open the car door for Alfred.

 

     "I hope so, too. Be careful driving home." After he got in, Clay closed the door and touched his fingers to his hat brim, then strode away.

 

     He was a nice man. Most of the people in Calais were nice. They were blind where Ivan Braginsky was concerned, but basically, they weren't vicious people.

 

     Ivan.

 

     Where had he gone?

 

     Alfred hoped Viktor wouldn't decide to stop his lessons because of this. Though he knew it was foolish to count his chickens prematurely, he felt a growing certainty that Viktor would be accepted into the Academy and was inordinately proud that he could be part of getting him there. Grandma would have said that pride got before a fall, but Alfred had often thought that a person would never fall if he didn't first try to stand. On more than one occasion he had countered Grandma's cliché of choice with his own "nothing ventured, nothing gained." It had always made Grandma huffy when her favorite weapon was turned against her. Alfred sighed. He missed his acerbic Grandma so much. His supply of clichés might wither from lack of use without Grandma to sharpen his wits against.

 

     When he turned into his driveway, he was tired, hungry and anxious, afraid that Viktor would try to be noble and stop his lessons so Alfred wouldn't have any more trouble because of him.

 

    "I'll teach him."

 

     He muttered aloud as he stepped out of the car.

 

     "If I have to follow him around on horseback."

 

     "Who are you following around?" Ivan demanded irritably, and Alfred jumped so violently that he banged his knee against the car door.

 

     "Where did you come from?" Alfred demanded just as irritably.

 

     "Darn it, you scared me!"

 

     "Probably not enough. I parked in the barn, out of sight."

 

     Alfred stared up at him, drinking in the sight of his proud, chiseled face and closed expression. The starlight was colorless, revealing his features in stark angles and shadows, but it was enough for him. He hadn't realized how starved he had been for the sight of Ivan, the heart-pounding nearness of him. Alfred couldn't even feel the cold now, the way blood was racing through his veins. This was probably what "being in heat" meant. It was breathtaking and a little scary, but he decided he liked it.

 

     "Let's go in."

 

     Ivan said when Alfred made no effort to move, and Alfred silently led the way to the back door. He'd left it unlocked so he wouldn't have to fumble with a key in the dark, and Ivan's black brows drew together when he turned the knob and pushed the door open. They entered, and Alfred closed the door behind them, then turned on the light. Ivan stared down at him, at the silky blonde hair escaping from his hat, and he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing him.

 

     "Don't leave your door unlocked again." He ordered.

 

     "I don't think I'll be burgled." Alfred countered, then admitted honestly.

 

     "I don't have anything a self-respecting burglar would want."

 

       He'd sworn he wouldn't touch the slight teacher, but even though he'd known it would be difficult to keep his hands to himself, he hadn't realized quite how difficult. He wanted to grab Alfred and shake some sense into him, but he knew if he touched him in any way at all, he wouldn't want to stop. Alfred's slightly feminine scent teased his nostrils, beckoning him closer; he smelled warm and delicately fragrant, it made his entire body ache with longing. Ivan moved away from him, knowing it was safer for them both if he put some distance between them.

 

     "I wasn't thinking about a burglar."

 

      "No?" Alfred considered that then realized what he'd meant and what he'd said in response. He cleared his throat and marched to the stove, hoping Ivan wouldn't see his red face.

 

     "If I make a pot of coffee, will you drink a cup this time or storm out as you did before as soon as it's made?"

 

      The tart reproach in his voice amused Ivan, and he wondered how he had ever thought him mousy. His clothes were dowdy, but his personality was anything but timid. Alfred said exactly what he thought and didn't hesitate to take someone to task. Less than an hour before he had taken on the entire county on his behalf. The memory of it sobered him.

 

     "I'll drink the coffee if you insist on making it, but I'd rather you just sat down and listened to me."

 

     Turning, Alfred slid into a chair and primly folded his hands on the table.

 

     "I'm listening."

 

     Ivan pulled the chair next to him away from the table and turned it to the side, facing him, before he sat down. Alfred turned an unsmiling gaze on him.

 

     "I saw you in the hall tonight."

 

     Ivan looked grim.

 

     "Damn. Did anyone else notice me?"

 

     He wondered how he had seen him because he'd been very careful, and he was good at not being seen when he didn't want to be.

 

     "I don't think so."

 

      He paused.

 

     "I'm sorry they said those things."

 

     "I'm not worried about what the good people of Calais think about me." He said in a hard tone.

 

     "I can handle them, and so can Viktor. We don't depend on them for our living, but you do. Don't go to bat for us again, unless you don't like your job very much and you're trying to lose it, because that's damn sure what will happen if you keep on."

 

     "I won't lose my job for teaching Viktor."

 

     "Maybe not. Maybe they'll have some tolerance for Viktor, especially since you threw the Academy at them, but I'm another story."

 

     "Nor will I lose my job for being friendly with you. I have a contract." Alfred explained serenely.

 

     "An ironclad contract. It isn't easy to get a teacher in a place as small and isolated as Calais, especially in the middle of winter. I can lose my job only if I'm judged incompetent, or break the law, and I defy anyone to prove me incompetent."

 

     Ivan wondered if that meant he didn't rule out breaking the law but didn't ask him. The kitchen light was shining directly down on Alfred's head, turning his hair to a silvery halo as he removed his hat and placed it on the table, and distracting Ivan with its glitter. He knew Alfred's hair was blonde, but it was such a pale, ash blonde that it had no red tones, and when light struck it the strands actually looked silver. Alfred looked like an angel, with his soft blue eyes and translucent skin, and his silky hair curling around his face, not to mention the cute little curl that never seemed to stay in place. Ivan's insides knotted painfully. He wanted to touch him. He wanted Alfred naked beneath him. He wanted to be inside him, to gently ride him until he was all soft and wet, and his nails were clawing at his back—

 

     Alfred reached out and put his slim hand on Ivan's much larger one, and just that small touch burned him.

 

     "Tell me what happened." Alfred invited softly.

 

     "Why were you sent to prison? I know you didn't do it."

 

     Ivan was a hard man, by nature as well as necessity, but Alfred's simple, unquestioning faith in him shook him to the bone. He had always stood alone, isolated by his Russian blood from Americans and his family had shunned him out when his father had brought him to America. Not even his parents had been close to him, though they had loved him and he had loved them in return. They had simply never truly known him, never been admitted into his private thoughts. Nor had he been close to his wife, Viktor' mother. They had slept together, he'd been fond of her, but she, too, had been kept at a distance. Only with Viktor had his reserve been breached, and Viktor knew him like no other person on earth did. They were part of each other, and he fiercely loved the boy. Only the thought of Viktor had gotten him through the years in prison alive.

 

     It was more than alarming that this slight American teacher had a knack for touching nerves he'd thought completely insulated; he didn't want Alfred close to him, not in any emotional way. He wanted to have sex with him, but he didn't want Alfred to matter to him. Angrily he realized that he already mattered to him, and he didn't like it at all.

 

     Ivan stared at Alfred's fragile hand on his, his touch light and soft. He didn't shrink from touching him, as if he were dirty; nor was he grasping at him as some men did, rapaciously, wanting to use him, to see if the savage could satisfy their shallow, greedy appetites. Alfred had simply reached out to touch him because he cared.

 

      Ever so slowly Ivan watched his hand turn and engulf Alfred's, enfolding the pale, slim fingers within his callused palm as if to protect them.

 

       "It was nine years ago." His voice was low, harsh; Alfred had to lean forward to hear him.

 

     "No—almost ten years. Ten years this June. Viktor and I had just moved here. I was working for the Half Moon Ranch. A girl from the next county was raped and killed, and her body dumped just within the far boundary of Half Moon. I was picked up and questioned, but hell, I'd been expecting it from the minute I heard about the girl. I was new to the area and Russian. But there was no evidence against me, so they had to let me go. Three weeks later, a boy was raped. This time he was from the Rocking L Ranch, just to the west of town. He was stabbed, like the girl, but he lived. He'd seen the rapist."

 

     Ivan paused for a minute, the expression in his black eyes shuttered as he looked back at those long-ago years.

 

    "He said he looked like a Russian. He was tall, with silver hair. Not many Russians around. I was picked up again before I even knew another person had been raped. They put me in a lineup with six light-haired Americans. The boy identified me, and I was charged. Viktor and I lived on Half Moon, but somehow no one remembered seeing me at home the night that boy was raped, except Viktor, and a six-year-old Russian kid's word didn't carry much weight."

 

     Alfred's chest hurt when he thought of how it had been for him, and for Viktor, who had been only a small child. How much worse had it been for Ivan because of Viktor, worrying about what would happen to his son? Alfred didn't know of anything he could say now to lessen that ten-year-old outrage, so he didn't try; he just tightened his fingers around Ivan's, letting him know he wasn't alone.

 

     "I was put on trial and found guilty. I'm lucky they weren't able to tie me to the first rape, the girl who'd been murdered, or I'd have been lynched. As it was, everyone thought I'd done it, the politics and stigma against Russians didn’t help my case."

 

     "You went to prison." It was so hard to believe, even though Alfred knew it was true.

 

     "What happened to Viktor?"

 

     "He was made a ward of the state. I survived prison. It wasn't easy. A rapist is considered fair game. I had to be the toughest son of a bitch in there just to live from one night to the next."

 

     Alfred had heard tales about what happened to men in prison, and his pain increased. He had been locked up, away from the sun and the mountains, the clear fresh air, and he knew it had been like caging a wild animal. Ivan was innocent, but his freedom and his son had been taken from him, and he'd been thrown in with the dregs of humanity. Had he slept soundly even once the entire time he'd been in prison, or had he merely dozed, his senses attuned to attack?

     Alfred's throat was tight and dry. All he could manage was a whisper.

 

     "How long were you in?"

 

      "Two years."

 

     His face was hard, his eyes full of menace as he stared at him, but Alfred knew the menace was directed inward, at his bitter memories.

 

     "Then a series of rapes and murders from Casper to Cheyenne were tied together and the guy was caught. He confessed, seemed proud of his accomplishments, but a little put out that they hadn't given him complete credit. He admitted to the two rapes in this area, and gave them details no one but the rapist could have known."

 

     "Was he Russian?"

 

     Ivan's smile was flinty.

 

     "American. Tan-skinned, curly black haired."

 

     "So, you were released?"

 

      "Yeah. My name was cleared, and they said 'Sorry about that,' and turned me loose. I'd lost my son, my job, everything I'd owned. I found out where they'd put Viktor and hitched there to get him. Then I rodeoed for a while to get some money and lucked out. I did pretty well. I won enough to come back here with something in my pocket. The old guy who had owned Half Moon had died with no heirs and the land was about to be sold for taxes. It wiped me out, but I bought the land. Viktor and I settled here, and I began training horses and building up the ranch."

 

     "Why did you come back?"

 

     Alfred couldn't understand it. Why return to the place where he'd been so mistreated?

 

     "Because I was tired of always moving on, never having a place of my own. Damn tired of being looked down on as a trashy, shiftless Russian. Tired of my son not having a home. And because there was no way in hell I was going to let the bastards get the best of me."

 

      The aching in Alfred's chest intensified. He wished he could ease the anger and bitterness in him, wished he dared take him in his arms and soothe him, wished he could become a part of the community instead of a thorn in its side.

 

     "They're not all illegitimate." He said and wondered why Ivan's mouth suddenly twitched as if he might smile.

 

     "Any more than all Russians are trashy or shiftless. People are just people, good and bad."

 

     "You need a keeper," Ivan replied.

 

    "That Pollyanna attitude is going to get you in trouble. Teach Viktor, do what you can for him, but stay the hell away from me, for your own sake. These people didn't change their minds about me just because I was released."

 

     "You haven't tried to change their minds. You've just kept rubbing their noses in their guilt." Alfred pointed out, his tone acerbic.

 

     "Am I supposed to forget what they did?" He asked just as sharply, “Forget that their 'justice' consisted of putting me in a lineup with six Americans and telling that boy to 'pick out the Russian'? I spent two years in hell. I still don't know what happened to Viktor, but it was almost three months after I got him back before he spoke a word. Forget that? Like hell."

 

     "So, they won't change their minds, you won't change your mind, and I won't change mine. I believe we have a stalemate."

 

     Ivan's dark violet eyes burned with frustration as he glared at him, and suddenly he seemed to realize he was still holding Alfred's hand. He released him abruptly and stood.

 

     "Look, you can't be my friend. We can't be friends."

 

      Now that his hand was free, Alfred felt abandoned and cold. He clasped his hands in his lap and looked up at him.

 

      "Why? Of course, if you simply don't like me..." His voice trailed off, and he bent his head to examine his hands as if he'd never seen them before.

 

     Not like him? He couldn't sleep, his temper was frayed, he got hard whenever he thought about him, and he thought about him too damn much. Ivan was so physically frustrated that he thought he might go mad, but he couldn't even ease himself with Toris or any other man now, because all he could think about was baby-fine blonde hair, clear blue eyes and skin like translucent rose petals. It was all he could do to keep from taking him, and only the knowledge of how the good townspeople of Calais would turn on Alfred if he made him his, kept him from grabbing him. Alfred's stubborn principles hadn't prepared him for the pain and trouble he would face.

 

     Suddenly Ivan's frustration boiled over, and he was filled with rage at having to walk away from the one man he wanted to the point of madness. Before he could stop himself, he reached down and grasped his wrists, hauling him to his feet.

 

      "No, damn it, we can't be friends! Do you want to know why? Because I can't be around you without thinking of stripping you naked and taking you, wherever we happen to be. Hell, I don't know if I'd take the time to strip you! I want your nipples in my mouth. I want your legs around my waist, or your ankles on my shoulders, or any position at all if I can just get inside you." He'd pulled Alfred so close that his warm breath brushed the startled man's cheeks as he rasped the low, harsh words at him.

 

      "So, малыш, there's no way we can be friends."

 

     Alfred shivered as his body responded to Ivan's words. Though they'd been spoken in anger, they told him that Ivan felt the same way he did, and described actions he could only half imagine. Alfred was too inexperienced and honest to hide his feelings from Ivan, so he didn't even try. His eyes were filled with painful longing.

 

     "Ivan?" Just that, but the way he said his name, with an aching little inflection at the end, made Ivan's grip on his wrists tighten.

 

     "No."

 

     "I—I want you." His whispered, trembled confession left him completely vulnerable to him, and Ivan knew it. He groaned inwardly. Damn it, didn't he have any sense of self-protection at all? Didn't he know what it did to a man to have the person he wanted to offer themselves like that, with no qualifications or holding back? His control was stretched hair-thin, but he grimly held on to it because the hard Calais was that Alfred truly didn't know. He was a virgin. He was old-fashioned, strictly raised, and had only the vaguest idea of what he was inviting.

 

     "Don't say that." He finally muttered, "I've told you before—"

 

    "I know." Alfred interrupted, "I'm too inexperienced to be interesting, and you... you don't want to be used as a guinea pig. I remember."

 

     He seldom cried, but he felt the salty wetness burning his eyes, and Ivan winced at the hurt he saw there.

 

      "I lied. God, how I lied."

 

      Then his control broke. He had to hold him, feel him in his arms just for a little while, have his taste on his mouth again. He drew Alfred's wrists up and placed his hands around his neck, then bent his head even as he locked his arms around him and drew him up tight against him. Ivan's mouth covered Alfred's and his eager response seared him. Alfred knew what to do now; his lips parted, allowing Ivan's tongue entrance, where he met him with soft, welcoming touches from his own tongue. He had taught him that, just as he'd taught him to melt against him, and the knowledge drove him almost as crazy as the feel of his soft body pressed against his chest.

 

     Alfred drowned in the sheer ecstasy of being in his arms again, and the tears that he'd held back spilled past his lashes. This was too painful and too wonderful, to be mere lust. If this was love, he didn't know if he could bear it.

 

      Ivan's mouth was hungry and hard, taking long, deep kisses that left Alfred clinging to him mindlessly. Ivan's hand moved surely up Alfred's stomach, and all he could do was make a soft sound of pleasure low in his throat. His nipples burned and throbbed; his touch both assuaged the pain and intensified it, making him want more. He wanted it the way Ivan had described it, with his mouth on his nipples, and he twisted feverishly against him. Alfred was empty and needed to be filled. He needed to be his.

 

     Ivan jerked his head up and pressed Alfred's face against his shoulder.

 

     "I have to stop. Now." Ivan groaned the words. He was shaking, as hot as any teenage stud in the back seat of his daddy's car.

 

     Alfred briefly weighed all of Grandma's strictures against the way he felt and accepted that he was in love because this mingled glory and torment could be nothing else.

 

      "I don't want to stop." Alfred said raggedly, "I want you to love me."

 

     "No. I'm Russian. You're American. The people in this town would destroy you. Tonight, was just a taste of what you'd have to go through. It would be worse with us both being men!"

 

     "I'm willing to risk it!" Alfred cried desperately.

 

     "I'm not. I can take it, but you-you hang on to your Pollyanna principles, малыш. I can't offer you anything in return."

 

     If he'd thought there was even a fifty-fifty chance of living here in peace, Ivan would have taken the risk, but he knew there wasn't, not the way things were. Other than Viktor, Alfred was the only human being in the world he'd ever wanted to protect, and it was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

 

     Alfred lifted his head from Ivan's shoulder, revealing his wet cheeks.

 

     "All I want is you."

 

     "I'm the one thing you can't have. They'd tear you apart." Very gently, Ivan pulled Alfred's arms down and turned to leave.

 

     Alfred's voice came behind him, low and strained as he fought against tears.

 

     "I'll risk it."

 

     Ivan stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

 

     "I won't."

 

     the second-time Alfred watched him walk away, and this time was far worse than the first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alfie ;(  
> Please leave comments and suggestions! also, how do ya'll feel about m!preg?


	5. Short Lived Happy Endings

     Viktor was unusually distracted; he was normally the most attentive of students, applying himself to the subject at hand with almost phenomenal concentration, but tonight he had something else on his mind. He'd accepted without comment their move to the school for lessons and never even hinted that he'd learned the subject of the school board meeting that had resulted in the change of locations. As it was the beginning of May, and the day had been unseasonably warm, Alfred was half inclined to put his restlessness down to spring fever. It had been a long winter, and he was restless himself.

     Finally, Alfred closed the book before him.

 

     "Why don't we go home early tonight?" He suggested, "We're not getting much done."

 

     Viktor closed his own book and pushed his fingers through his thick black hair, identical to his father's. Alfred had to look away.

 

       "Sorry." He said on a long exhalation. It was typical that he didn't offer an explanation. Viktor didn't often feel the need to justify himself.

     But in the weeks, he'd been tutoring him, they had had a lot of personal conversations between the prepared lessons, and Alfred never hesitated when he thought one of his students might be troubled. If it were only spring fever gnawing at him, then he wanted him to say so.

 

     "Is something bothering you?"

 

     Viktor gave him a wry smile, one that was too adult to belong to a fifteen-year-old boy.

 

     "You could say that."

 

     "Ah."

 

     That smile relieved him because now he thought he knew the cause of Viktor's restlessness. It was indeed spring fever, after a fashion. As Grandma had often lectured him.

 

     "When a young man's sap rises, a girl should look out. I declare, they seem to run mad."

 

     Evidently, Viktor' sap was rising. Alfred wondered idly if Ivan had sap, too.

     Viktor picked up his pen and fiddled with it for a moment before tossing it aside as he made up his mind to say more.

 

     "Pam Hearst asked me to take her to a movie."

 

     "Pam?"

 

     This was a surprise and possible trouble. Ralph Hearst was one of the townspeople most adamantly opposed to the Braginsky’s.

Viktor' ice-blue eyes were hooded as he glanced at his teacher.

 

     "Pam is the girl I told you about before."

 

     So, it was Pam Hearst. She was pretty and bright, and her slim young body had a form guaranteed to affect a young man's sap. Alfred wondered if Pam's father knew she had been flirting with Viktor and that was one reason for his hostility.

 

     "Are you going to go?"

 

     "No." He said flatly, surprising him.

 

     "Why?"

 

     "There aren't any movie houses in Calais."

 

     "So?"

 

      "That's the whole point. We'd have to go to another town. No one we know would be likely to see us. She wanted me to pick her up behind the school after it got dark." Viktor leaned back in his chair and looped his hands behind his head.

 

     "She was too ashamed to go to the dance with me, but I'm good enough for her to sneak around and see. Maybe she thought that even if we were seen, the idea that I might go to the Academy would keep her from getting in too much trouble. Folks seem taken with the idea." His tone was ironic, "I guess it makes a difference when the Russian wears the right uniform."

 

     Suddenly his impulsive announcement at the school board meeting didn't seem like such a good idea.

 

     "Do you wish I hadn't told them?"

 

     "You had to, considering." He replied, and by that, he knew Viktor was aware of the subject of that meeting.

 

     "It puts extra pressure on me to get into the Academy because if I don't they'll all say that the Russian just couldn't cut it, but that's not a bad thing. If it will push me to do more, then I'm that much closer to getting in."

 

     Privately, Alfred didn't think Viktor needed any added incentive; he wanted it so badly now that the need burned in him. Alfred returned the conversation to Pam.

 

     "Does it bother you, that she asked now?"

 

     "It made me mad. And it really made me mad having to turn her down, because I sure would like to get my hands on her."

 

     He stopped abruptly and gave Alfred another of those too-adult looks before a little grin tugged at his lips.

 

     "Sorry. I didn't mean to get too personal. Let's just say that I'm attracted to her physically, but that's all it is, and I can't afford to fool with that kind of situation. Pam's a nice girl, but she doesn't figure in my plans."

 

     Alfred understood what he meant. There was something solitary about him, as there was about Ivan, and in addition, Viktor was so possessed by the specter of flight that part of him was already gone. Pam Hearst would marry some local boy, settle down in Calais or nearby, and raise her own family in the same calm setting where she'd grown up; she wasn't meant for the brief attention Viktor Braginsky could give her before he moved on.

 

     "Do you have any idea who started the gossip?"

 

      Viktor asked, his pale eyes hard. He didn't like the idea of anyone hurting this fragile man.

 

     "No. I haven't tried to find out. It could have been anyone who drove by and saw your truck at my house. But most people seemed to have forgotten about it now, except for—" Alfred stopped, his eyes troubled.

 

     "Who?" Viktor demanded flatly.

 

     "I don't mean that I think she started the gossip. "Alfred said hastily, "I just feel uneasy around her. She dislikes me, and I don't know why. Maybe she's this way with everyone. Has Dottie Lancaster—"

 

     "Dottie Lancaster!" He gave a harsh laugh, "Now there's a thought. Yeah, she could have started the gossip. She's had a rough life, and I kind of feel sorry for her, but she did her best to make my life hell when I was in her classes."

 

     "Rough? How?"

 

      "Her husband was a truck driver, and he was killed years ago when her son was just a baby. He was on a run-in Colorado, and a drunk driver ran him off the side of a cliff. The drunk was a Russian. She never got over it and blames all Russian, I guess."

 

     "That's irrational." Viktor shrugged as if to say a lot of things were irrational.

 

      "Anyway, she was left alone with her kid, and she had a hard time. Not much money. She started teaching, but she had to pay someone to take care of the kid, and he needed special training when he was old enough to start school, which took even more money."

 

     "I didn't know Dottie had any children," Alfred said, surprised.

 

     "Just Robert—Bobby. He's about twenty-three or four, I guess. He still lives with Mrs. Lancaster, but he doesn't go around other people much."

 

 

     "What's wrong with him? Does he have Down's syndrome or a learning disability?"

 

     "He's not retarded. Bobby's just different. He likes people, but not in groups. A lot of people together make him nervous, so he pretty much stays to himself. He reads a lot and listens to music. But once he had a summer job at the building supply store, and Mr. Watkins told Bobby to fill a wheelbarrow full of sand. Instead of pushing the wheelbarrow to the sand pile and shoveling the sand in, Bobby would get a shovelful of sand and carry it back to the wheelbarrow. It's things like that. He'd have trouble getting dressed, because he'd put his shoes on first, and then he couldn't get his jeans on."

 

     Alfred had seen people like Bobby, who had trouble with practical problem-solving. It was a learning disability and took a lot of patient, specialized training to handle. He felt sorry for him, and for Dottie, who couldn't have had a happy life.

 

      Viktor pushed his chair back and stood up, stretching his cramped muscles.

 

     "Do you ride?" Viktor asked suddenly.

 

     "No. I've never even been on a horse." Alfred chuckled, "Will that gets me thrown out of Montana?" He joked.

 

     Viktor' tone was grave.

 

      "It could. Why don't you come up on the mountain some Saturday and I'll give you riding lessons? The school will be out for the summer soon, and you'll have a lot of time to practice."

 

     He couldn't know how appealing the idea was, not only to ride but to see Ivan again. The only thing was, it would hurt just as much to see him as it did not see him because he was still out of Alfred's reach.

 

     "I'll think about it," Alfred promised, but he doubted he would ever take Viktor up on the offer.

     Viktor didn't push it, but he didn't intend to let it drop, either. He'd get Alfred up on the mountain one way or another. He figured Ivan had about reached the limits of his restraint. Parading Alfred right under his nose would be like leading a mare in heat in front of a stallion. His pretty, tart-tongued little teacher would be lucky if his dad didn't have him flat on his back before he had the 'hello' out of his mouth. Viktor had to hide his smile. He'd never seen anyone get to Ivan the way Mr. Alfred F. Jones had. He had Ivan so tied in knots he was as dangerous as a wounded cougar.

 

     He mentally hummed a few bars of "Matchmaker."

* * *

 

     When Alfred got home the next Friday afternoon, there was a letter in the mailbox from Senator Allard, and his fingers trembled as he tore it open. If it was bad news for Viktor, if Senator Allard had declined to recommend him to the Academy, he didn't know what he would do. Senator Allard wasn't their only possibility, but he had seemed the most receptive, and a turndown from him would really be discouraging.

 

     The senator's letter to him was brief, thanking him for his efforts in bringing Viktor to his attention. He had decided to recommend Viktor for admittance to the Academy, for the freshman class beginning after Viktor' graduation from high school. From there on, it would be up to him to pass the rigorous academic and physical examinations.

 

     Enclosed was a private letter of congratulations to Viktor.

 

     Alfred hugged the letters to his chest, and tears welled in his eyes. They had done it, and it hadn't even been that difficult! He had been prepared to petition every congressman every week until Viktor was given his chance, but it hadn't been necessary. Viktor' grades and credits had done it for him.

 

     It was news too good to wait, so he got back into his car and drove up Braginsky's Mountain. The drive was much different now; the snow had melted, and wildflowers bloomed beside the road. After the harsh winter cold, the spring warmth felt like a blessing on his skin, though it still wasn't nearly as warm as the springs he had known in California. He was so excited and happy that he didn't even notice the steep drop on the side of the road as it wound higher, but he did notice the wild grandeur of the mountains, stretching magnificently toward the dark blue heavens. He drew a deep breath and realized that the spring did make up for the winter. It felt like home, a new home, a place dear and familiar.

 

     The tires threw out a spray of gravel as he slid to a stop at the kitchen door of Ivan's one-story frame house, and before the vehicle had rocked back on its springs, he was bounding up the steps to pound on the door.

 

     "Ivan! Viktor!"

 

     Alfred knew he was yelling in a very uncouth manner, but he was too happy to care. Some situations just called for yelling.

 

     "Alfred!"

 

     The call came from behind him, and he whirled. Ivan was coming from the barn at a dead run, his powerful body surging fluidly. Alfred yelped in excitement and launched himself from the steps, his hair flying behind him as he bolted down the gravel drive toward the barn.

 

     "He got it!" He screamed, waving the letters, "He got it!"

 

     Ivan skidded to a halt and watched the sedate teacher literally skipping and leaping toward him. He just had time to realize there was nothing wrong, that he was laughing, when, three steps away, Alfred went airborne. Ivan braced himself and caught his weight against his chest, his brawny arms wrapping around him.

 

     "He got it!" Alfred shrieked again and threw his arms around Ivan's neck. Ivan could think of only one thing, and it made his mouth go dry.

 

      "He got it?"

 

     Alfred waved the letters under his nose.

 

     "He got it! Senator Allard—the letter was in my mailbox—I couldn't wait—where's Viktor?"

 

     He knew he was almost incoherent and made an effort to compose himself, but he just couldn't stop grinning.

 

     "He's in town picking up a load of fencing. Damn it, are you sure that's what it says? He still has a year of school—"

 

     "Not a year, not at the rate he's going. But he'll have to be seventeen, anyway. The senator has recommended him for the freshman class starting after he graduates. Less than a year and a half!"

 

     Fierce pride filled Ivan's face, the warrior's pride he'd inherited from his Russian side. His eyes glittered with black fire, and exultantly he lifted Alfred high, his hands under the younger man's armpits, and twirled around with him. Alfred threw back his head, shrieking with laughter, and suddenly Ivan felt his entire body clench with desire. It was as powerful as a blow to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Alfred was soft and warm in his arms, his laughter was as fresh as the spring, and Ivan wanted him out of the prim little button-up and pants he wore.

 

     Slowly Ivan's face changed to a harder, more primitive cast. Alfred was still laughing as he lowered him, his hands braced on Ivan's shoulders, but he stopped when Alfred's chest was level with his face. The laughter died in Alfred's throat as Ivan deliberately brought him closer to him. His grip shifted, one arm locking around the teacher's buttocks and the other around his back, and Ivan's hot mouth searched for his nipple. He found it, his mouth clamping down on it through the barrier of his pale blue shirt, but the sensation was still so exquisite that Alfred's breath caught on a moan and his back arched, pushing his chest against him.

 

     It wasn't enough. Alfred burrowed his fingers through Ivan's hair, digging into his skull to push his mouth harder against him, but it wasn't enough. He wanted him with sudden, fierce desperation. The layers of cloth that kept Ivan from him drove him mad, and he squirmed against him, low whimpers coming from his throat.

 

     "Please," Alfred begged. "Ivan—"

 

     Ivan lifted his head, his eyes savage with need. His blood was thundering through his veins, and he was breathing hard.

 

     "Do you want more?"

 

     The words were guttural, a normal tone beyond him. Alfred squirmed against him again, his hands clutching desperately.

 

    "Yes."

 

     Very gently Ivan let him slide down his body, deliberately rubbing him over the hardened bulge in his jeans, and both of them shuddered. Ivan was beyond thinking of all his reasons for not becoming involved with him, beyond anything but the urge to take him. To hell with what anyone thought.

 

     He looked around, gauging the distance to both house and barn. The barn was closer. Clamping his hand around Alfred's wrist, he strode toward the big open double doors that revealed the dim interior.

 

     Alfred could barely get his breath as he was all but dragged in his wake. His senses bewildered by the sudden cessation of pleasure, he was confused by his actions and wanted to ask what he was doing, but he didn't have enough oxygen in his lungs to form the question. Then they were inside the barn, and he was swamped by the perceptions of dim light, animal warmth and the earthy smells of dust, hay, leather, and horses. He heard soft nickers and the muffled stamping of hooves on straw. Ivan led him into an empty stall and dragged him down onto the fresh hay. Alfred sprawled on his back, and Ivan came down on top of him, his muscled weight pressing him even deeper into the hay.

 

     "Kiss me," Alfred whispered, reaching up to thrust his fingers into his long hair and pull Ivan down to him.

 

     "I'll kiss you all over before I'm through with you," Ivan muttered, and bent his head. Alfred's mouth opened under the force of his, and his tongue moved into him in a deep rhythm that he instinctively recognized and accepted, responded to eagerly. Ivan was heavy, but it was so natural that Alfred bears his weight that he rejoiced in the pressure of his body. He wrapped his arms around Ivan's thickly muscled shoulders and hugged him even tighter to him; he wanted to be as close as he could to him, and to that end his hips undulated slightly, adjusting to the carnal pressure of his loins.

 

     The slow movements of his hips beneath him made Ivan feel as if his head would explode from the rush of blood through his body. He made a low, rough sound in his throat and reached for the buttons on Alfred's shirt. Ivan thought he would die if he didn't feel his silky skin under his hands if he didn't sheathe his throbbing flesh inside him.

 

     It was startlingly new to Alfred, bringing a delicate flush to his cheeks, but it was still so right that he didn't even think of protesting. He didn't want to protest. He wanted Ivan. He felt warm and sexual, intensely aware of being a man and offering himself to the man he loved. He wanted to be naked for him, so he helped him by pulling his arms free of the sleeves as he tugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. He had felt racy, daring to not wear an undershirt beneath his button up, but as Ivan looked down at his chest, he was so glad he had done it.

 

     Ivan made that rough sound again, almost like a growl, and bent to nuzzle at him. His mouth, warm and wet, slid across his chest and clamped on the tightly beaded nipple. Alfred jumped, his entire body reacting to a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, as Ivan sucked strongly at him. Alfred's eyes closed, and he moaned. He couldn't bear it; it felt too good, a hot river of pleasure-pain impulses running from breast to loin, where an empty ache made him press his legs together and arch beneath him, silently begging for the release his body had never known, but sensed with ancient wisdom.

 

     Ivan felt him move beneath him again, and the last shred of control he'd retained, vanished. Roughly he jerked Alfred's suit pants down and off, and kneed his thighs apart, settling himself between the vulnerable V of his legs. Alfred opened his eyes, a little shocked by what he could feel down there, but eager to know more.

 

     "Take off your clothes." He whispered frantically and tore at the buttons on his shirt. He still couldn't believe that he had the same effect on Ivan, as Ivan was having on him.

 

     Ivan reared back on his knees and tore his shirt open, then off. His naked skin glistened with a fine patina of sweat; in the dim light, filled with floating dust motes, the overlay of sleek bronze skin on powerful muscles gave him the look of live art sculpted by a master's hand. Alfred's gaze moved hungrily, feverishly, over him. He was perfect, strong and male, the scent of his body hot and faintly musky. He reached out for him, his hands sliding over Ivan's broad chest, lightly haired in a diamond pattern stretching from nipple to nipple. He touched those tight little buds, and Ivan froze, a massive shiver of pleasure rippling through his muscles.

     He groaned aloud and dropped his hands to his belt. He unbuckled the wide band of leather, then unsnapped his jeans and jerked the zipper down, the hissing of the metal teeth blending with their harsh breathing. With some last desperate fragment of willpower, he kept himself from lowering his pants. Alfred was a virgin; he couldn't allow himself to forget that, even in his urgency. Damn it, he had to regain some control, or he'd both scare and hurt him, and he would die before he turned his first time into a nightmare.

 

     Alfred's slim fingers curled in the hair on his chest and tugged lightly.

 

      "Ivan." He said. Just his name, just that one word, but his voice was warm and low and drugged sounding, and it beckoned him more powerfully than anything he'd known before.

 

     "Yes." He said in response.

 

     "Now."

 

      He leaned forward to cover him again, then froze as a distant sound came to his ears.

     He swore quietly and sank back on his heels, battling desperately to control his body and his frustration.

 

     "Ivan?" Now Alfred's tone was hesitant, consternation and self-consciousness creeping into it. That inflection made Ivan feel murderous because he hadn't been self-conscious before. He had been warm and loving, willing to give himself without reserve.

 

     "Viktor will be here in a few minutes..." Ivan said flatly.

 

     "I can hear his truck coming up the mountain."

 

     Alfred was still so far out of it that he merely looked confused.

 

     "Viktor?"

 

     "Yes, Viktor. Remember him? My son, the reason you're up here in the first place."

 

     Alfred's cheeks flooded with color, and he jerked into an upright position, as far as he could, because his thighs were still draped over Ivan's.

 

      "Oh, my God." Alfred said, "Oh, my God. I'm naked. You're naked. Oh my God."

 

     "We're not naked," Ivan muttered, much to his disappointment, wiping his sweaty face.

 

     "Damn it."

 

     "Almost!"

 

     "Not enough."

 

     Even Alfred's nipples were rosy with embarrassment now. Ivan looked at them with regret, remembering his sweet taste and the way his velvety little nipple had bloomed in his mouth. But the sound of the truck was much closer now, and with a low, obscene comment on his son's rotten timing, he got to his feet and effortlessly lifted Alfred to his.

 

     Tears blurred Alfred's vision as he turned his back to fumble with his shirt buttons. Grandma would have been outraged. She would have fallen on the ground in a hissy fit if she'd even thought of her grandson rolling naked in the hay with another man. And, darn it, he hadn't even been able to finish his rolling!

 

     "Here, I'll do it."

 

     Ivan said in a far gentler tone than Alfred had ever before heard from him. He turned him around and deftly handled the buttons. Alfred kept his head down, unable to look Ivan in the eye, but the contrast of his big tan hands contrasting his pale chest made him feel hot again. He swallowed and looked at Ivan's belt buckle. He'd zipped his jeans back up and buckled his belt, but the visible swell of his loins told Alfred he wasn't completely unaffected by this interruption. That made him feel better, and he blinked the tears from his eyes as Ivan helped him back into his pants, and fastened his flies.

 

     "You have hay in your hair."

 

      Ivan teased, and picked the straw from the tangled tresses, then brushed it from his shirt.

     Alfred put up both hands to discern the state of his hair and found it a complete mess.

 

     "Leave it," Ivan said.

 

     "I like it messy. It looks like silk."

 

     Nervously Alfred combed his fingers through the strands and watched as Ivan leaned down to pick up his shirt from the hay.

 

     "What will Viktor think?" He blurted as the truck pulled to a stop outside the barn.

 

     "That he's lucky he's my son, or I'd have killed him," Ivan muttered grimly, and Alfred wasn't certain he was teasing. He put his shirt on but didn't bother buttoning it before stepping into the open door. Taking a deep breath, Alfred braced himself to get through the embarrassment and followed him.

 

     Viktor had just gotten out of the truck, and now he stood beside the door, his ice-blue eyes moving from his father to Alfred and back, taking in Ivan's stone face and open shirt, and Alfred's tousled hair.

 

     "Damn it!" He swore and slammed the door shut.

 

     "If it had just taken me fifteen minutes longer—"

 

     "My feelings exactly." Ivan concurred.

 

     "Hey, I'll leave—"

 

     Ivan sighed.

 

     "No. He came to see you anyway."

 

      "That's what you said the first time." Viktor grinned hugely.

 

     "And I just said it again." Ivan turned to Alfred, and some of the enjoyment of his stunning news returned to his eyes.

 

     "Tell him."

 

      Alfred couldn't think.

 

     "Tell him?"

 

     "Yeah. Tell him."

 

     Slowly his dazed mind registered what he was saying. He looked in bewilderment at his empty hands. What had happened to the letters? Had they lost them in the hay? How mortifying it would be to have to search through the hay for them! Not knowing what else to do, he spread his hands and said simply,

 

     "You're in. I got the letter today."

 

     Blood drained from Viktor' face as he stared at him, and he reached out blindly to rest his hand on the truck as if to steady himself.

 

     "I got in? The Academy? I got into the Academy?" He asked hoarsely.

 

     "You got the recommendation. It's up to you to pass the exams."

 

     He threw back his head and screamed, an exultant, spine-chilling sound like that of a hunting panther, then leaped at Ivan. The two of them pounded each other's backs, laughing and yelling, then finally just hugging each other in a way two weaker men couldn't have done. Alfred folded his hands and watched them, smiling, so happy his heart swelled to the point of pain. Then suddenly an arm reached out and snagged him, and he found himself sandwiched between the two Braginsky’s, almost smashed flat by their celebration.

 

     "You're smothering me!" Alfred protested in a gasping voice, wedging his hands against two broad chests and pushing. One of those chests was bare, exposed by an unbuttoned shirt, and the touch of his warm skin made him go weak in the knees. Both of them laughed at his protest, but both of them immediately gentled their embrace.

 

      Alfred patted his hair down and smoothed his shirt.

 

     "The letters are here somewhere. I must have dropped them."

 

     Ivan gave him a wicked look.

 

     "You must have."

 

     His teasing made Alfred happy deep inside, and he smiled up at him. It was a quietly intimate smile, the sort that someone gives the man they love after they have been in his arms, and it warmed him. To cover his reaction, Ivan turned to look for the dropped letters and spotted one on the drive, while the other had fallen close to the barn door. He retrieved both of them and gave Viktor the one addressed to him.

 

     The boy's hands shook as he read the letter, even though he already knew the contents. He couldn't believe it. It had happened so fast. A dream come true should have been harder to attain; he should have had to sweat blood to get it. Oh, he wasn't driving one of those twenty-million dollar babies yet, but he would. He had to because he would be only half alive without wings.

 

     Alfred was watching him with proud indulgence when he felt Ivan stiffen beside him. He looked at him inquiringly. His head was lifted as if he scented danger, and his face was suddenly as impassive as stone. Then Alfred heard the sound of an engine and turned as a deputy sheriff's car rolled to a stop behind Viktor' truck.

 

     Viktor turned, and his face took on the same stony look as Ivan's as Clay Armstrong got out of the county car.

 

     "Mr. Jones," Clay spoke to him first, tipping his hat.

 

     "Deputy Armstrong." Two hundred years of strict training on social behavior were in his voice. Grandma would have been proud. But he sensed some threat to Ivan, and it was all he could do not to put himself between him and the deputy. Only the knowledge that Ivan wouldn't appreciate the action kept him standing at his side.

 

     Clay's friendly blue eyes weren't friendly at all now.

 

     "Why are you up here, Mr. Jones?"

 

     "Why are you asking?” He shot back, putting his hands on his hips.

 

     "Just skip to the good part, Armstrong." Ivan snapped.

 

     "Fine." Clay snapped back.

 

     "You're wanted for questioning. You can come with me now, the easy way, or I can get a warrant for your arrest."

 

     Viktor stood frozen, fury and hell in his eyes. This had happened before, and he'd lost his father for two nightmarish years. It seemed even more terrible this time, because just moments before they had been celebrating, and he'd been on top of the world.

     Ivan began buttoning his shirt. In a voice like gravel, he asked.

 

     "What happened this time?"

 

     "We'll talk about that at the sheriff's office."

 

     "We'll talk about it now." Violet eyes met blue, and abruptly Clay realized this man wouldn't move a foot unless he had some answers.

 

     "A girl was raped this morning." Pure rage burned in those violet eyes.

 

     "So naturally you thought of the Russian." Ivan spat the words like bullets from between clenched teeth. God, this couldn't be happening again. Not twice in one lifetime. The first time had almost killed him, and he knew he'd never go back to that hellhole, no matter what he had to do.

 

     "We're just questioning some people. If you have an alibi, there's no problem. You'll be free to go."

 

      "I suppose you picked up every rancher in this area? Do you have Eli Baugh at the sheriff's office answering questions?"

 

     Clay's face darkened with anger.

 

     "No."

 

     "Just the Russian, huh?"

 

     "You have priors." But Clay looked uncomfortable.

 

     "I don't have... one... single... prior conviction." Ivan snarled, "I was cleared."

 

     "Damn it, man, I know that!" Clay suddenly yelled.

 

     "I was told to pick you up, and I'm going to do my job."

 

     "Well, why didn't you just say so? I wouldn't want to stop a man from doing his job." After that sarcastic jab, Ivan strode to his truck.

 

     "I'll follow you."

 

      "You can ride in the car. I'll bring you back."

 

      "No, thanks. I'd rather have my own wheels, just in case the sheriff decides a walk would do me good."

 

      Swearing under his breath, Clay went to the car and got in. Dust and gravel flew from his tires as he headed back down the mountain, with Ivan behind him slinging even more dust and gravel.

 

     Alfred began shaking. At first, it was just a tremor, but it swiftly escalated into shudders that rattled his entire body. Viktor was standing as if turned to stone, his fists clenched. Suddenly he whirled and slammed his fist into the hood of his truck.

 

     "By God, they won't do it to him again," Viktor whispered. "Not again."

 

     "No, they certainly won't." Alfred was still shaking, but he squared his shoulders.

 

     "If I have to get every judge and court in this country involved, I will. I'll call newspapers, I'll call television networks, I'll call—oh, they don't have any idea of who all I can call."

 

     The network of Old Family contacts he had left behind in California was still there, and more favors would be called in than the sheriff of this county could count. He'd hang him out to dry!

 

      "Why don't you go home?" Viktor suggested in a flat tone.

 

     "I want to stay." Viktor expected him to quietly walk to his car, but at his words, he looked at him for the first time. Deep inside, part of him had thought Alfred wouldn't be able to leave fast enough, that he and Ivan would be alone again, as they had always been. They were used to being alone. But Alfred stood his ground as if he had no intention of budging off this mountain, his soft hazel eyes full of fire and his fragile chin lifted in the way that Viktor had learned meant others could just get out of his path.

 

     The boy, forced by circumstance to grow up hard and fast, put his strong arms around the trembling older man and held him, desperately absorbing some of his strength, because he was deathly afraid he'd need it. And Alfred held him. He was Ivan's son, and he'd protect him with every ounce of fight he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! two chapter in one day! I'm on fire! Poor Ivan. :T Hope he gets out soon...


	6. Unfortunate Events

     It was after nine when they heard Ivan's truck, and both of them froze with mingled tension and relief: tension because they dreaded to hear what had happened, and relief because he was home instead of locked in jail. Alfred couldn't imagine Ivan in jail, even though he'd spent two years in prison. He was too wild, like a wolf that could never be tamed. Imprisoning him had been an act so cruel as to be obscene.

     Ivan came in the back door and stood there staring at Alfred, his dark face expressionless. Alfred and Viktor sat at the kitchen table, nursing cups of coffee.

  
     "Why are you still here? Go home."

  
     Alfred ignored the flatness of his tone. He was so angry he could almost feel the heat from across the room, but he knew it wasn't directed against him. Getting up, he dumped his lukewarm coffee into the sink and got another cup from the cabinet, then poured fresh coffee into both cups.

  
     "Sit down, drink your coffee and tell us what happened." He said in his best schoolteacher voice.

     He did reach for the coffee, but he didn't sit down. He was too angry to sit. The rage boiled in him, robbing his movements of their usual fluidity. It was starting all over again, and he'd be damned if he'd go to prison again for something he hadn't done. He'd fight any way he could and with any weapon he could, but he'd die before he'd go back to prison.

  
     "They let you go," Viktor said.

      "They had to. The girl was raped around noon. At noon, I was delivering two horses to the Bar W R. Wally Rasco verified it, and the sheriff couldn't figure out a way I could have been in two different places, sixty miles apart, at the same time, so he had to let me go."

  
     "Where did it happen?"

  
     Ivan rubbed his forehead, then pinched his nose between his eyes as if he had a headache, or maybe he was just tired.

  
     "She was grabbed from behind when she got in her car, parked in her own driveway. He made her drive almost an hour before telling her to pull off on the side of the road. She never saw his face. He wore a ski mask. But she could see long black hair, and that was enough of a description for the sheriff."

     "The side of the road?" Alfred blurted.

  
     "That's... weird. It doesn't make sense. I know there's not much traffic, but still, someone could have come by at any time."

     "Yeah. Not to mention that he was waiting for her in her driveway. The whole thing is strange."

  
      Viktor drummed his fingers on the table.

  
     "It could have been someone passing through."

     "How many people 'pass through' Calais?" Ivan asked dryly.

  
     "Would a drifter have known whose car it was, or when she was likely to come out of the house? What if the car belonged to a man? That's a big chance to take, especially when rape seems to have been the only thing on his mind because he didn't rob her, even though she had money."

     "Are they keeping her identity secret?" Alfred asked.

     Ivan looked at him.

  
     "It won't stay a secret, because her father was in the sheriff's office waving a rifle and threatening to blow my guts out. He attracted a lot of attention, and people talk."

     His face was still expressionless, but Alfred sensed the bitter rage that filled him. His fierce pride had been dragged in the dust—again. How had he endured being forced to sit there and listen to insults and threats? Because he knew he'd been insulted, by vile words describing his mixed heritage as well as by the very fact he'd been picked up for questioning. He was holding it all in, controlling it, but the rage was there.

   
     "What happened?"

  
     "Armstrong stopped it. Then Wally Rasco got there and cleared me, and the sheriff let me go with a friendly warning."

  
     "A warning?" Alfred jumped to his feet, his eyes flashing, "For what?"

     Ivan pinched Alfred's chin and gave him a coldly ferocious smile.

  
     "He warned me to stay away from American folk, sweetcakes. And that's just what I'm going to do. So, you go on home now and stay there. I don't want you on my mountain again."

     "You didn't feel that way in the barn." Alfred shot back, then darted a look at Viktor and blushed. Viktor just quirked an eyebrow and looked strangely self-satisfied. Alfred decided to ignore him and turned back to Ivan.

  
     "I can't believe you're letting that mush-brain sheriff tell you who you can see." Ivan narrowed his eyes at him.

  
     "Maybe it hasn't dawned on you yet, but it's all starting again. It doesn't matter that Wally Rasco cleared me. Everyone is going to remember what happened ten years ago, and the way they felt."

     "You were cleared of that, too, or doesn't that count?"

     "With some people." He finally admitted.

      "Not with most. They're already afraid of me, already distrust and dislike me. Until this bastard is caught, I probably won't be able to buy anything in that town, not groceries, gas or feed. And anyone who has anything to do with me could be in real danger of being tarred and feathered."

     So that was it. He was still trying to protect him. Alfred stared at him in exasperation.

     "Ivan, I refuse to live my life according to someone else's prejudices. I appreciate that you're trying to protect me—"

      He could hear an audible click as Ivan's teeth snapped together.

     "Do you?" He asked with heavy sarcasm.

     "Then go home. Stay home, and I'll stay here."

      "For how long?"

     Instead of answering his question, Ivan made an oblique statement.

     "I'll always be a _commie bastard_."

      "And I'll always be what I am, too. I haven't asked you to change." Alfred pointed out, pain creeping into his voice. Alfred looked at him with longing plain in his eyes, as no-one had ever looked at him before, and the rage in him intensified because he couldn't simply reach out and take him in his arms, proclaim to the world that he was his. The sheriff's warning had been clear enough, and Ivan knew well that the hostility toward him would rapidly swell to explosive proportions. It could easily spill over onto Alfred, and now he wasn't just worried that he would lose his job. A job was nothing compared to the physical danger he could suffer. He could be terrorized in his own home, his property vandalized; he could be cursed and spat upon; he could be physically attacked. For all his sheer determination, he was still just a rather slight man, and he would be helpless against anyone who wanted to hurt him.

     "I know." Ivan finally said, and despite himself, he reached out to touch Alfred's baby-fine hair.

     "Go home, малыш. When this is over—" He stopped because he didn't want to make promises he might not be able to keep, but what he'd said was enough to put a glowing light in the younger man's eyes.

     "All right." Alfred murmured, putting his hand on Ivan's.

  
     "By the way, I want you to get a haircut."

  
     Ivan looked startled.

   
     "A haircut?"

     "Yes. You want me to stop wearing my hat, and I want you to get a haircut."

  
     "Why?"

     Alfred gave him a shrewd look.

     "You don't wear it long because you're Russian. You wear it long just to upset people, so they'll never forget your Russian blood. So, get it cut."

     "Short hair won't make me less Russian."

     "Long hair won't make you more Russian."

     He looked as if he would stand there until doomsday unless Ivan agreed to get a haircut. He gave in abruptly, muttering.

  
    "All right, I'll get a haircut."

     "Good." Alfred smiled at him and went on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth.

      "Good night. Good night, Viktor."

     "Goodnight, Alfred."

     When he was gone, Ivan wearily ran his hand through his hair, then frowned as he realized he'd just agreed to cut it off. He looked up to find Viktor watching him steadily.

     "What are we going to do?" The boy asked.

     "Whatever we have to," Ivan replied, his expression flinty.

* * *

 

     When Alfred bought groceries the next morning, he found everyone in the store huddling together in small groups of two or three and whispering about the rape. The girl's identity was quickly revealed; it was Cathy Teele, whose younger sister, Christa, was in Alfred's class. The entire Teele family was devastated, according to the whispers Alfred heard as he gathered his groceries.

     Next, to the flour and cornmeal, he encountered Dottie Lancaster, who was flanked by a young man Alfred assumed was Dottie's son.

     "Hello, Dottie." He greeted the woman pleasantly, even though it was possible Dottie had started the rumor about him and Viktor.

     "Hello." Dottie wore a distressed expression, rather than her habitual sour one.

     "Have you heard about that poor Teele girl?"

     "I haven't heard anything else since I entered the store."

     "They arrested that Russian, but the sheriff had to let him go. I hope now you'll be more careful about the company you keep."

     "Ivan wasn't arrested." Alfred managed to keep his voice calm, "He was questioned, but he was at Wally Rasco's ranch when the attack occurred, and Mr. Rasco backed him up. Ivan Braginsky isn't a rapist."

     "A court of law said he was and sentenced him to prison."

     "He was also cleared when the true rapist was caught and confessed to the crime for which Ivan had been convicted."

      Dottie drew back, her face livid.

     "That's what that _commie_ said, but as far as we know, he just got out on parole. It's easy to see whose side you're on, but then, you've been running with those commies since the day you came to Calais. Well, there's an old saying that if you sleep with dogs, you're bound to get fleas. The Braginsky’s are dirty Russian trash—"

     "Don't you say another word." Alfred interrupted, color high in his cheeks as he took a step toward Dottie. He was furious; his hand itched to slap the woman's self-righteous face, though he would never strike a woman! Grandma had said that a gentleman never brawled, but Alfred was ready to forever relinquish any claim he had to the title.

     "Ivan is a decent, hard-working man, and I won't let you or anyone else say he isn't."

     Dottie's color was mottled, but something in Alfred's eyes made her refrain from saying anything else about Ivan. Instead, she leaned closer and hissed.

     "You'd better watch yourself, Little Mr. Goody-Goody, or you'll find yourself in a lot of trouble."

     Alfred leaned closer, too, his jaw set.

     "Are you threatening me?" He demanded fiercely.

     "Mama, please." The young man behind her whispered in a frantic tone and tugged at Dottie's arm. Dottie looked around at him, and her face changed. She drew back but told Alfred contemptuously.

     "You just mark my words." And stalked away.

      Her son, Bobby, was so distressed he was wringing his hands as he hurried after Dottie. Immediately, Alfred was sorry he had let the horrid little scene develop; from what Viktor had told him, Bobby had a hard enough time handling everyday problems without adding more.

     He took a few deep breaths to regain his composure, but almost lost it again when he turned and found several people standing in the aisle, staring at him. They had all obviously heard every word, and looked both shocked and avid. He had no doubt the tale would be all over town within the hour: two of the schoolteachers brawling over Ivan Braginsky. He groaned inwardly as he picked up a bag of flour. Another scandal was just what Ivan needed.

     In the next aisle, he met Cicely Karr. Remembering the woman's comments during the school board meeting, Alfred couldn't stop himself from saying.

     "I've received a letter from Senator Allard, Mrs. Karr. He's recommending Viktor Braginsky for admission to the Academy." He sounded challenging even to his own ears. To his surprise, Mrs. Karr looked excited.

     "He is? Why I never would've believed it. Until Eli explained it to me, I didn't quite realize what an honor it is." Then she sobered.

     "But now this terrible thing has happened. It's awful. I—I couldn't help overhearing you and Dottie Lancaster. Mr. Jones, you can't imagine what it was like ten years ago. People were frightened and angry, and now the same nightmare has started again."

     "It's a nightmare for Ivan Braginsky, too," Alfred said hotly.

     "He was sent to prison for a rape he didn't commit. His record was cleared, but still, he was the first person the sheriff picked up for questioning. How do you think he feels? He'll never get back the two years he spent in prison, and now it looks as if everyone is trying to send him there again." Mrs. Karr looked troubled.

     "We were all wrong before. The justice system was wrong, too. But even though Braginsky proved he didn't rape Cathy Teele, don't you see why the sheriff wanted to question him?"

     "No, I don't."

     "Because Braginsky had reason to want revenge."

     Alfred was aghast.

     "So, you thought he'd take revenge by attacking a young woman who was just a child when he was sent to prison? What sort of man do you think he is?"

     He was horrified by both the idea and the feeling that everyone in Calais would agree with Mrs. Karr.

     "I think he's a man who hates."

     Mrs. Karr said firmly. Yes, she believed Ivan capable of such horrible, obscene revenge; it was in her eyes. Alfred felt sick; he began shaking his head.

     "No." Alfred said, "No. Ivan is bitter about the way he was treated, but he doesn't hate. And he would never hurt anyone like that."

     If he knew anything in this world, he knew that. He had felt an urgency in Ivan's touch, but never brutality. But Mrs. Karr was shaking her head, too.

     "Don't tell me he doesn't hate! It's in those cold soviet eyes every time he looks at us, any of us. The sheriff found out he'd been in Vietnam, in some special assassination group, or something. God only knows how it warped him! Maybe he didn't rape Cathy Teele, but this would be a perfect opportunity for him to get revenge and have it blamed on whoever did rape her!"

     "If Ivan wanted revenge, he wouldn't sneak around to get it." Alfred said scornfully, "You don't know anything about the kind of man he is, do you? He's lived here for years, and none of you know him."

     "And I suppose you do?" Mrs. Karr was getting red in the face, "Maybe we're talking about a different kind of 'knowing.' Maybe that rumor about you carrying on with Viktor Braginsky was half right, after all. You've been carrying on with Ivan Braginsky, haven't you?" The scorn in the woman's voice enraged Alfred.

     "Yes!" He half shouted, and honesty compelled him to add, "But not as much as I'd like."

     A chorus of gasps made him look around, and he stared into the faces of the townspeople who had stopped in the aisle to listen. Well, he'd really done it now; Ivan had wanted him to distance himself from him, and instead, he'd all but shouted from the rooftops that he'd been "carrying on" with him. But Alfred couldn't feel even the tiniest bit of shame. He felt proud. With Ivan Braginsky, he was not a dowdy, old maid schoolteacher who even owned a cat, for heaven's sake. He didn't feel dowdy when he was with Ivan; he felt warm, wanted. If he had any regrets, it was that Viktor hadn't been fifteen minutes later returning the day before, or even five minutes, because more than anything he wanted to be Ivan's in every way, to lie beneath his thrusting body, eagerly accepting the force of his passion and giving him his own. If for that, for loving him, he was ostracized, then he counted society well lost.

     Mrs. Karr said icily, "I believe we'll have to have another school board meeting."

     "When you do, consider that I have an ironclad contract." Alfred shot back, "And my being gay, or who I choose to be with, should have no relevance whatsoever."

     Then he turned on his heel. He hadn't gathered all of the groceries he needed, but he was too angry to continue. When he plunked the items down on the counter, the clerk looked as if she wanted to refuse to ring them up, but she changed her mind under Alfred's glare.

     Alfred stormed home and was gratified when the weather seemed to agree with him if the grey clouds forming overhead were any indication. After storing his groceries, he checked on the cat, who had been acting strange lately. A horrid thought intruded: surely no one would have poisoned the cat? But Coco was sunning himself peacefully on the rug, so he dismissed the idea with relief.

      _When this is over..._

     The phrase echoed in his memory, tantalizing him and stirring an ache deep inside. He longed for Ivan so intensely that he felt as if he were somehow incomplete. He loved him, and though he understood why Ivan thought it better for him to stay away from him right now, he didn't agree. After what had happened that morning with Dottie Lancaster and Cicely Karr, there was no point in allowing this exile. He might as well have stood in the middle of the street and shouted it: he was Ivan Braginsky's.

     Whatever Ivan wanted from him, he was willing to give. Grandma had raised him to believe that intimacy belonged only in marriage, and if a man or woman for some reason felt they simply couldn't live without the physical, Grandma had made it plain she couldn't imagine what such a reason would be. While Alfred had accepted that people obviously were intimate outside of marriage, he had never been tempted to it himself—until he'd met Ivan.

     If Ivan wanted him for only a short time, he counted that as better than nothing. Even one day with him would be a bright and shining memory to treasure during the long, dreary years without him, a small bit of warmth to comfort him. His dream was to spend a lifetime with him, but he didn't allow himself to expect it. Ivan was too bitter, too wary; it was unlikely he would permit an American to get that close to him. He would give him his body, perhaps even his affection, but not his heart or his commitment.

     Because he loved him, Alfred knew he wouldn't demand more. He didn't want anger or guilt between them. For as long as he could, in whatever way, he wanted to make Ivan happy.

     Ivan had asked him to stop wearing his woolen hat, and the silky weight of his hair hung nearly to his shoulders. He had been surprised, looking in the mirror that morning, how the relaxed hairstyle softened his face. His eyes had glowed because leaving his hair uncovered was something he could do for him. It made him feel good. There was no point in trying to make people think him neutral now, not after those arguments he'd gotten into. When he told Ivan, what had happened, he'd see the uselessness of trying to maintain the sham. Alfred even felt relieved, because his heart hadn't been in it.

     Alfred had started to change into one of his shapeless baggy shirts when he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused. In his mind, he relived that moment the day he'd first met Ivan, when he'd seen him in Viktor' old jeans and his eyes had momentarily widened with a look so hot and male it had the power, even now, to make him shake. He wanted Ivan to look at him like that again, but he wasn't likely to as long as he kept wearing these—these feed sacks!

     Suddenly he was dissatisfied with all his clothing. His shirts were, without exception, sturdy and modest, but they were also too drab and loose-fitting. His slight build would be better displayed in delicate kinds of cotton and light, cheerful colors, and even skinny jeans, instead of his formal suit pants. He turned and looked at his bottom in the mirror; it was slim and curvy. He could see no reason why he should be ashamed of it. It was a very nice bottom, as bottoms went.

     Muttering to himself, he buttoned up his serviceable "good" shirt and grabbed his wallet. Calais wouldn't offer much in the way of new clothes, but he could certainly buy some jeans and plain t-shirts, that, above all, actually fit him.

      And he never wanted to see another "sensible" pair of shoes in his life.

     The grey clouds lived up to their promise, and it began to rain as he made the drive into town. It was a steady rain, just the sort ranchers and farmers everywhere loved, rather than a downpour that simply ran off instead of soaking into the ground. Grandma wouldn't have set foot out of the house during a rain, but Alfred ignored it. He stopped first at the one store in Calais that dealt exclusively in clothing, though by necessity the clothes weren't hot from a fashion show in Paris. He bought three pairs of jeans, ladies size six, ‘cos they fit just right! A dozen lightweight cotton t-shirts, a blue chambray shirt that made him feel like a pioneer, and a ruby-red sweater, that flattered him so much, that he spun on his heel in delight, just like a child. He also picked out all new underwear, and a pair of converse, as he'd often seen his students wearing them, and he'd always liked the style. When the saleswoman rang them up and called out the total, Alfred didn't even blink an eye. This had been way too long in coming.

      Nor was he finished. He locked his packages in the car and dashed through the rain to Hearst's general store, where everyone bought boots. Since Alfred planned to be spending most of his time on Ivan's mountain, he figured he'd need a pair.

     Mr. Hearst was almost rude to him, but he stared him down and briefly thought of shaking his schoolteacher's finger at him. He discarded the idea because the finger lost its power if used too often, and he might really need it sometime in the future. So, Alfred ignored him and tried on boots until he finally found a pair that felt comfortable on his feet.

      He couldn't wait to get home and put on his jeans and chambray shirt; he might even wear his boots around the house to get them broken in, he thought. Coco wouldn't know him. He thought of that look in Ivan's eyes and began to shiver.

     His car was parked up the street, a block away, and it was raining hard enough now that he made a disgusted noise at himself for not driving from the clothing store to Hearst's. Calais didn't have sidewalks, and already huge puddles were standing on the pavement. Well, he had on his sensible Doc Martins; let them earn their keep! Putting his head down and holding the box containing his boots up in an effort to ward off part of the rain, he darted from the sheltering overhang of the roof and immediately got wet to the ankles when he stepped into a puddle. He was still grumbling to himself about that when he passed the small alley that ran between the general store and the next building, which had formerly been a barbershop but now stood empty.

     He didn't hear anything or see a flurry of movement; he had no warning at all. A big hand, wet with rain, clamped over his mouth, and an arm wrapped around the front of his body, effectively holding his arms down as his attacker began hauling him down the alley, away from the street. Alfred fought instinctively, wriggling and kicking while he made muffled sounds behind the man's palm. His hand was so tight on Alfred's face that his fingers dug painfully into his cheek.

     The tall, wet weeds in the alley clung to his pant legs, and the pounding rain stung his eyes. Terrified, he kicked harder. This couldn't be happening! Someone couldn't just carry him off in broad daylight! But he could; he had done it to Cathy Teele.

     Alfred got one arm free and reached back, clawing for his face. His desperate fingers found only wet, woolly cloth. The man cursed, his voice low and raspy, and hit Alfred on the side of the head with his fist.

     His senses blurred as his head was rocked with pain, and his struggles grew aimless. Vaguely he was aware when they reached the end of the alley and the man dragged him behind the abandoned building.

     His breathing was fast and harsh in Alfred's ear as he forced him down on his stomach in the gravel and mud. He managed to get his arm free again and put his hand out to break his fall; the gravel scraped his palm, but he barely felt it. The man's hand was still over his mouth, suffocating him; he ground Alfred's face into the wet dirt and held him down with his heavy weight on his back.

     He scrabbled with his other hand for the waistband of Alfred's pants, pulling them down. Wildly Alfred clawed at his hand, trying to pull it free so he could scream, and he hit him again. Alfred was terrified and kept clawing. Cursing, the man forced Alfred's legs apart and thrust himself against him. Alfred could feel him through his pants and his underpants, pushing at him, and began gagging. God, no!

     Alfred heard his clothing tear, and overpowering revulsion gave him strength. He bit savagely at the man's hand and reached back for his eyes, green eyes, his nails digging for flesh. There was a roaring in his ears, but he heard a shout. The man on top of him stiffened, then braced his hand beside his head and used it to balance himself as he leaped to his feet. Alfred's vision blurred by rain and mud, he saw only a blue sleeve and a pale, soft freckled hand before he was gone.

     From above and behind him came a loud boom, and vaguely he wondered if now he would be struck by lightning. No, lightning came before the thunder. Running footsteps pounded the ground, going past him. Alfred lay still, his body limp and his eyes closed.  
He heard low cursing, and the footsteps returned.

     "Alfred." A commanding voice said.

     "Are you all right?" Alfred managed to open his eyes and looked up at Clay Armstrong. He was soaked to the skin, his blue eyes furious, but his hands were gentle as he pulled up Alfred's pants, then turned him onto his back and lifted him in his arms.

      “Are you all right?” The words were sharper now.

     The rain stung Alfred's face.

     "Yes." He managed and turned his head into Clay's shoulder.

     "I'll get him." Clay promised, "I swear to you, I'll get the bastard."

      There was no doctor in town, but Bessie Pylant was a registered nurse, and Clay carried Alfred to Bessie's house. Bessie called the private practitioner for whom she worked and got him to drive over from the next town. In the meantime, she carefully cleaned Alfred's scrapes and put ice on the bruises, and began pouring hot, too-sweet tea down him.

     Clay had disappeared. Bessie's house was suddenly full of women; Sharon Wycliffe came and assured Alfred that she and Dottie could handle things on Monday if he didn't feel like working; Francie Beecham told tales of her own teaching days, her purpose obvious, and the other women took their cues from her. Alfred sat quietly, clutching so tightly at the blanket Bessie had wrapped around him that his knuckles were white. He knew the women were trying to divert him and were grateful to them; with rigid control, he concentrated on their commonplace chatter. Even Cicely Karr came and patted Alfred's hand, despite the argument they'd had only a few hours before.

     Then the doctor arrived, and Bessie led Alfred into a bedroom for privacy while the doctor examined him. He answered his questions in a subdued voice, though he winced when he probed the sore place on the side of his head where the man had struck him with his fist. He checked his pupil response and his blood pressure and gave him a mild sedative.

     "You'll be all right." He finally said, patting his shoulder.

     "There's no concussion, so your headache should go away soon. A good night's sleep will do more for you than anything I can prescribe."

     "Thank you for driving out here," Alfred said politely.

     Desperation was growing in him. Everyone had been wonderful, but he could feel a fine wire inside his being coiled tighter and tighter. He felt dirty and exposed. He needed privacy and a shower, and more than anything he needed Ivan. He left the bedroom and found that Clay had returned. He came to him immediately and took his hand.

     "How are you feeling?"

     "I'm all right." If he had to say that one more time, he thought he would scream.

     "I need a statement from you if you think you can do it now."

     "Yes, all right."

     The sedative was taking effect; he could feel the spreading sensation of remoteness as the drug numbed his emotions. He let Clay lead him to a chair and pulled the blanket tight around him once more. He felt chilled.

     "You don't have to be afraid." Clay soothed.

     "He's been picked up. He's in custody now."

     That aroused his interest, and he stared at him.

     "Picked up? You know who it is?"

     "I saw him." The iron was back in Clay's voice.

     "But he was wearing a ski mask."

     He remembered that, remembered feeling the woolly fabric under his fingers.

    "Yeah, but his hair was hanging out from under the mask in back."

    Alfred stared up at him, the numbness in him changing into a kind of horror. His hair was long enough to hang out from under the mask? Surely Clay didn't think—surely not! He felt sick.

     "Ivan?" He whispered.

     "Don't worry. I told you he's in custody."

      He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug crescents in his palms.

     "Then let him go."

      Clay looked stunned, then angry. "Let him go?! Damn, Alfred, can't you get it through your head that he attacked you?"

      Slowly he shook his head, his face white.

      "No, he didn't."

      "I saw him," Clay said, spacing out each word.

     "He had long silver hair. Damn it, who else could it have been?"

       "I don't know, but it wasn't Ivan."

      The women were silent, sitting frozen as they listened to the argument. Cicely Karr spoke up.

      "We did try to warn you, Alfred."

       "Then you warned me about the wrong man!" His eyes burning, Alfred stared around the room, then turned his gaze back to Clay.

       "I saw his eyes and his hands! He was an American man with soft hands and green eyes. He had freckled hands. It wasn't Ivan Braginsky!"

       Clay's brow creased in a frown.

       "Are you certain about that?"

       "Positive. He put his hand on the ground right in front of my eyes." He reached out and grabbed Clay's sleeve.

       "Get Ivan out of jail, right now. Right now, do you hear me! And he'd better not have a bruise on him!"

     Clay got up and went to the telephone, and once again Alfred looked at the women in the room. They were all pale and worried. He could guess why. As long as they had suspected Ivan, they had had a safe target for their fear and anger. Now they had to look at themselves, as someone who was one of them. A lot of men in the area had freckled hands, but Ivan didn't. His hands were lean and lightly tanned, bronzed by the sun, callused from years of hard manual work and riding. Alfred had felt them on his bare skin. He wanted to shout that Ivan had no reason to attack him because he could have him any time he wanted, but he didn't. The numbness was returning. He just wanted to wait for Ivan, if he came at all.

         An hour later Ivan walked into Bessie's house as if he owned it without knocking. An audible gasp rose when he appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders reaching almost from beam to beam. He didn't even glance at the other people in the room. His eyes were on Alfred, huddled in his blanket, his face colorless.

        Ivan's boots rang on the floor as he crossed to him and hunkered down. His black eyes raked him from head to toe; then he touched Alfred's chin, turning his head toward the light so he could see the scrape on his cheek and the bruises where hard fingers had bitten into his soft flesh. He lifted his hands and examined his raw palms. His jaw was like granite.

        Alfred wanted to cry, but instead, he managed a wobbly smile.

       "You got a haircut." He said softly and linked his fingers together to keep from running them through the thick, silky, silver strands that lay perfectly against his well-shaped head.

       "First thing this morning." He murmured, "Are you all right?"

      f  "Yes. He—he didn't manage to... you know."

        "I know." He stood.

        "I'll be back later. I'm going to get him. I promise you, I'll get him."  
  
        "That's a matter for the law." Clay said sharply.

        Ivan's eyes were a cold violet fire.

       "The law isn't doing a very good job."

        He walked out without another word, and Alfred felt chilled again. While he had been there, life had begun tingling in his numb body, but now it was gone. He had said he would be back, but Alfred thought he should go home. Everyone was very kind, too kind; he felt as if he would scream. He couldn't handle anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to post twice today since I won't post for a bit. I have three 3,000 word essays to write by Thursday and I have not written anything haha, that's what I get for writing fanfiction lol. but yeeeee hope you enjoyed and leave a comment!


	7. Connected

     Though he was stunned by Ivan's changed appearance, it took Clay only a moment to follow him. As he had suspected, Ivan stopped his truck at the alley where Alfred had been attacked. By the time, Clay parked the county car and entered the alley, Ivan was down on one knee, examining the muddy ground. He didn't even glance up when Clay approached. Instead, he continued his concentrated examination of every weed and bit of gravel, every scuff mark, every indentation.

     "When did you get a haircut?" Clay asked.

  
     "This morning. At the barbershop in Harpston."

  
     "Why?"

     "Because Alfred asked me to," Ivan said flatly and returned his attention to the ground. Slowly he moved down the alley and to the back of the buildings, pausing at the spot where Alfred's attacker had thrust him to the ground. Then he moved on, following exactly the path the attacker had taken, and it was in the next alley that he gave a grunt of satisfaction and knelt beside a blurred footprint. Clay had been over the ground himself, and so had many other people. He said as much to Ivan.

  
     "That print could belong to anyone."

  
     "No. It's made by a soft-soled shoe, not a boot." After examining the print awhile longer, he said, "He toes in slightly when he walks. I'd guess he weighs about one seventy-five, maybe one-eighty. He isn't in very good shape. He was already tired when he got this far."

  
    Clay felt uneasy. Some people would have simply passed off that kind of tracking ability as part of Ivan's Russian heritage, but they would have been wrong. There were excellent trackers of wildlife who could follow a man's footsteps in the wilderness as easily as if he had wet paint on the bottoms of his boots, but the details Ivan had discerned would have been noted only by someone who had been trained to hunt other men. Nor did he doubt what Ivan had told him because he had seen other men, though not many, who could track like that.

     "You were in Vietnam." He already knew that, but suddenly it seemed far more significant. Ivan was still examining the footprint.

  
      "Yes. You?"

  
    "Twenty-First Infantry. What outfit were you with?"

  
      Ivan looked up, and a very slight, unholy smile touched his lips.

  
      "I was a LRRP."

  
       Clay's uneasy feeling became a chill. The LRRPs, pronounced "lurp," were men on long-range reconnaissance patrol. Unlike the regular grunts, the LRRPs spent weeks in the jungles and hill country, living off the land, hunting and being hunted. They survived only by their wits and ability to fight or to fade away into the shadows, whichever the situation demanded. Clay had seen them come in from the bush, lean and filthy, smelling like the wild animals they essentially were, with death in their eyes and their nerves so raw, so wary, that it was dangerous to touch them unexpectedly or walk up to their backs. Sometimes they hadn't been able to bear the touch of another human being until their nerves settled down. A smart man walked lightly around a LRRP fresh in from the field.

  
       What was in Ivan's eyes now being cold and deadly, an anger so great Clay could only guess at its force, though he understood it. Ivan smiled again, and in the calmest tone imaginable, one almost gentle, he said,

  
     "He made a mistake."

  
     "What was that?"

  
      "He hurt my man."

  
     "It's not your place to hunt him. It's a matter for the law."

  
      "Then the law had better stay close to my heels," Ivan said and walked away.

       Clay stared after him, not even surprised by the blunt words claiming Alfred as his. The chill ran down his back again and he shivered. The town of Calais had made a mistake in judging this man, but the rapist had made an even bigger one, one that might prove fatal.

* * *

  
     Alfred stoically ignored all the protests and pleas when he announced his intention of driving home. They meant well, and he appreciated their concern, but he couldn't stay another moment. He was physically unharmed, and the doctor had said his headache would fade in the next few hours. He simply had to go home.

    So, he drove alone in the misting rain, his movements automatic. Afterward, he could never recall a moment of the drive. All he was aware of when he let himself into the creaky old house was a feeling of intense relief, and it so frightened him that he pushed it away. He couldn't afford to let himself relax, not now. Maybe later. Right now, he had to hold himself together very tightly.

  
     Coco looped around his ankles several times, meowing plaintively. Alfred stirred himself to feed him, though he was as fat as a butterball already, then found himself exhausted by that brief effort. He sat down at the table and folded his hands in his lap, holding himself motionless.  
That was how Ivan found him half an hour later, just as the grey daylight began to fade.

  
       "Why didn't you wait for me?" Ivan asked from the doorway, his tone a low, gentle growl.

  
        "I had to come home," Alfred explained.

  
         "I would have brought you."

  
        "I know."

  
         Ivan sat down at the table beside him and took his cold, tightly clasped hands in his. Alfred looked at him steadily, and his heart clenched like a fist in his chest.  
Ivan would have given anything never to have seen that look in his eyes.

         He had always been so indomitable, with his "damn the torpedoes" spirit. He was slight and delicately made, but in his own eyes, he had been invincible. Because the very idea of defeat was foreign to him, he had blithely moved through life arranging it to suit himself and accepted it as the only natural that shopkeepers quaked before his wagging finger. That attitude had sometimes irritated, but more often entranced, Ivan. The kitten thought himself a tiger, and because he acted like a tiger, other people had given way. He was no longer indomitable. A horrible vulnerability was in his eyes, and Ivan knew he would never forget the moments when he had been helpless. That scum had hurt him, humiliated him, literally ground him into the dirt.

   
      "Do you know what really horrified me?" Alfred asked after a long silence.

  
        "What?"

  
       "That I wanted the first time to be with you, and he was going to—" He stopped abruptly, unable to finish.

  
        "But he didn't."

  
        "No. He pulled down my pants and pushed against me, and he was tearing my clothes when Clay—I think Clay shouted. He might have fired a shot. I remember hearing a roaring sound, but I thought it was thunder." His flat little monotone bothered Ivan, and he realized Alfred was still in shock.

   
       "I won't let him get near you again. I give you my word."

  
        Alfred nodded, then closed his eyes.

  
        "You're going to take a shower." Ivan said, urging him to his feet, "A long, warm shower, and while you're taking it, I'll fix something for you to eat. What would you like?"

  
        Alfred tried to think of something, but even the thought of food was repugnant.

  
         "Just tea."

  
         Ivan walked upstairs with him; he was steady, but the steadiness seemed fragile as if he were barely holding himself under control. Ivan wished that he would cry, or yell, anything that would break the tension encasing him.

  
        "I'll just get my pajamas. You don't mind if I get my pajamas, do you?" Alfred looked anxious, as if afraid he was being too troublesome.

  
         "No." Ivan started to reach out and touch him, to slide his arm around his waist but dropped his hand before contact was made. He might not want anyone to touch him. A sick feeling grew in Ivan as he realized he might find him, and any other man's, touch disgusting now.

  
          Alfred got his pajamas and stood docilely in the old-fashioned bathroom while Ivan adjusted the water.

   
          "I'll be downstairs." He said as he straightened and stepped back, "Leave the door unlocked."

  
          "Why?" Alfred's eyes were big and solemn.

  
         "In case you faint, or need me."

  
          "I won't faint."

  
           Ivan smiled a little. No, Mr. Alfred Arthur Way wouldn't faint; he wouldn't allow himself to be so weak. Maybe it wasn't tension holding him so straight; it might be the iron in his backbone.

  
          Ivan knew he wouldn't be able to coax Alfred to eat much if anything, but he heated a can of soup anyway. His timing was perfect; the soup had just boiled and the tea finished steeping when Alfred entered the kitchen.

   
         He hadn't thought to put on a robe; he wore only the pajamas, a plain blue cotton pair. Ivan felt himself begin to sweat because as demure as the pajamas were, he could still see the darkness of Alfred's nipples through the fabric. Ivan swore silently as Alfred sat down at the table like an obedient child; now wasn't the time for lust. But telling himself that didn't stop it; Ivan wanted him, under any circumstances.

          Alfred ate the soup mechanically, without protest, and drank the tea, then thanked him for making it. Ivan cleared the table and washed up the few dishes; when he turned, Alfred was still sitting at the table, his hands folded and his eyes staring at nothing. He froze briefly and muttered a curse. He couldn't bear it another minute. Swiftly he lifted Alfred out of the chair and sat down in it, then settled him on his lap. Alfred was stiff in his arms for a moment; then a sigh filtered between his lips as he relaxed against his chest.

          "I was so frightened." He whispered.

  
          "I know, honey."

  
          "How can you know?" He sounded faintly truculent.

  
           "Yeah, but I was in prison, remember?"

  
        He wondered if Alfred would know what he was talking about, and he saw his brow furrow as he thought. Then he said,

   
       "Oh."

  
         Alfred began scowling fiercely.

  
        "If anyone hurt you—" He began.

       "Hold it! No, I wasn't attacked. I'm good at fighting, and everyone knew it." He didn't tell Alfred how he'd established a reputation for himself, "But it happened to other prisoners, and I knew it could happen to me, so I was always on guard." He'd slept only in light naps, with a knife made from a sharpened spoon always in his hand; his cell had hidden a variety of weapons, a lot of which the guards had seen and not recognized for what they were. It would have taken another LRRP to have seen some of the things he'd done and the weapons he'd carried. Yeah, he'd been on guard.

       "I'm glad," Alfred said, then suddenly bent his head against Ivan's throat and began to cry. Ivan held him tightly, his fingers laced through his hair to press against his skull and hold him to his chest. Alfred's soft, slender body shook with sobs as he wound his arms around Ivan's neck. Alfred didn't say anything else, and neither did he, but they didn't need words.  
Ivan cradled him until finally he sniffed and observed dazedly.

        "I need to blow my nose."

        Ivan stretched to reach the napkin holder and plucked a napkin from it to place in his hands. Alfred blew his nose quietly, then sat still, searching in his depths for the best way to handle what had happened. He knew it could have been much worse, but it had been bad enough. Only one thought surfaced: he didn't want to be alone tonight. He hadn't been able to tolerate the women fussing around him, but if Ivan would just stay with him, he'd be all right.  
He looked up at Ivan.

       "Will you stay with me tonight?"

   
       Every muscle in Ivan's body tensed, but there was no way he could deny him.  
  
       "You know I will. I'll sleep on the—"

        "No. I mean—if you could sleep with me tonight, and hold me so I won't be alone, just for tonight, I think I'll be all right tomorrow."

         Ivan hoped it would be that easy for him, but he doubted it. The memories would linger on, springing out from dark corners to catch him when he least expected it. Until the day he died, he would never entirely forget, and for that, Ivan wanted to catch his assailant and break the guy's neck. Literally.

  
         "I'll call Viktor and let him know where I am." He said and lifted Alfred from his lap.

  
        It was still early, but his eyelids were drooping, and after Ivan called Viktor, he decided there was no point in putting it off. He needed to be in bed.

  
       Ivan turned out the lights and put his arm around Alfred as they climbed the narrow stairs together. His flesh was warm and resilient beneath the thin cotton, and the feel of him made Ivan's heart begin a slow, heavy beat. His jaw clenched as blood throbbed through his body, pooling in his groin. He was in for a miserable night, and he knew it.

  
       Alfred's bedroom was so old-fashioned it looked turn-of-the-century, but he hadn't expected anything else. The delicate lilac smell he associated with Alfred was stronger up here. The ache in his loins intensified.

  
       "I hope the bed is big enough for you," Alfred said, worrying as he eyed the double bed.

  
       "It'll do."

  
        It wasn't big enough, but it would do. Ivan would have to spend the night curled around him. His bottom would be nestled against him, and he would quietly go insane. Suddenly he didn't know if he could do it if he could lie with Alfred all night and not take him. No matter what his mind said, his body knew exactly what it wanted; he was already so hard it was all he could do to keep from groaning.

  
      "Which side do you want?" What did it matter? Torment was torment, no matter what side Ivan was on.

      "The left."

  
       Alfred nodded and turned back the covers. Ivan wanted to look away as he climbed into bed, but his eyes wouldn't obey. He saw the curve of his buttocks as the pajama pants were momentarily pulled tight. He saw his pale, slim ankles and immediately pictured them clasped around his waist. He saw his rosy nipples, and he remembered the feel them in his mouth, his smell and taste. Abruptly Ivan bent down and pulled the sheet up over him.

  
       "I have to take a shower." He saw the brief dart of fear at being alone in Alfred's eyes, but then he conquered it and said.

  
      "The towels are in the closet next to the bathroom door."

  
        Ivan was swearing savagely to himself as he stood in the bathroom, jerking his clothes off. A cold shower wouldn't help; he'd had a lot of them lately, and the effect was remarkably short-lived. He needed Alfred—naked, beneath him, sheathing his swollen and throbbing flesh. He would be so tight that he wouldn't last a minute—

  
       Damn. He couldn't leave him, not tonight. No matter what it cost him.

  
       His entire body was aching as he stood under the warm, beating water. He couldn't crawl into bed with him like this. The last thing Alfred needed right now was to have him poking at him all night. He needed comfort, not lust. Not only that, Ivan wasn't entirely certain of his control. He'd been too long without and had wanted him for too long. He couldn't leave him, but he couldn't go to him like this. He knew what he had to do, and his soapy hand slid down his body. At least this would give him some modicum of control because he would rather slit his own throat than see that fear and vulnerability in Alfred's eyes again.

* * *

 

        Alfred was lying very still when Ivan rejoined him, and he didn't move as Ivan turned out the light. It wasn't until his weight depressed the mattress that he shifted to lie on his side. Ivan positioned himself on his side, too, and hooked an arm around his waist to pull him firmly back into the cradle of his body. Alfred sighed, and he felt the tension slowly ebb from his body as he relaxed against him.

  
      "This is nice." He whispered.

       "You aren't afraid?"

       "Of you? No. Never of you." Alfred's tone was liquid with tenderness. He lifted his hand to reach back and cup Ivan's jaw in his palm.

  
       "I'll be all right in the morning, wait and see. I'm just too tired right now to deal with it. Will you hold me all night?"

  
       "If you want me to."

   
       "Please."

  
        Ivan brushed his hair to one side and pressed a kiss into the nape of his neck, delighting in the delicate little shiver that rippled through his body when he did so.

  
        "My pleasure." He said gently, "Good night, малыш."

  
        It was the storm that woke Alfred. It was barely dawn, the light still dim, though the black clouds contributed to the greyness. The storm was fierce, reminding him of the ferocious thunderstorms in the South. Lightning ripped the dark sky apart, and the booming thunder made the very air vibrate. He lazily counted the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunder to see how far away the storm was: seven miles. But it was pouring rain, the sound loud on the old tin roof. It was wonderful.

  
        He felt both acutely alive and deeply calm as if he were waiting for something. Yesterday was, by its very definition, in the past. It could no longer hurt him. Today was the present, and the present was Ivan.

  
          He wasn't in the bed, but Alfred knew he had been there during the night. Even in sleep he had sensed him, felt his strong arms holding him. Sleeping together was a joy so deep he couldn't express it, as if it had been meant to be. Perhaps it had been. He couldn't stop himself from hoping.

  
          Where was he? Alfred thought he smelled coffee and got out of bed. He visited the bathroom, brushed his hair and teeth, and returned to the bedroom to dress. Oddly he felt suddenly constrained by the button up he put on and discarded it. A subtle pulsating sensation had enveloped his entire body, and the sense of waiting increased. He simply pulled on a long, loose cotton t-shirt over his nude body and went downstairs in his bare feet.

  
         Ivan wasn't in the parlor, or the kitchen, though the empty coffeepot and the cup in the sink explained the lingering scent. The kitchen door was open, the screen door no barrier to the cool damp air, and the fresh smell of rain mingled with that of the coffee. His truck was still parked at the back-porch steps.

  
          It took only a few minutes to boil water and steep a tea bag, and Alfred drank the tea while sitting at the kitchen table, watching the rain sheet down the window. It was cool enough that he should have been chilled, wearing only the thin t-shirt, but he wasn't, even though he could feel how his nipples had tightened. Once that would have embarrassed him. Now he thought only of Ivan.

  
          He was halfway between the table and the sink, empty cup in hand, when suddenly Ivan was there, standing on the other side of the screen door, watching him through the wire mesh. His clothing was plastered to his skin, rainwater dripping off of his face. Alfred froze, his head turned to stare at him.

  
          He looked wild, primitive, his eyes narrow and glittering, his feet braced apart. Alfred could see every breath that swelled his chest, see the pulse that throbbed at the base of his throat. Though he was very still, he could feel Ivan's entire body pulsating with tension. At that moment, Alfred knew Ivan was going to take him, and he knew that was why he had waited.

   
          "I'll always be Russian." He said in a low, harsh voice, barely audible over the drumming rain, "There will always be people who look down on me because of it. Think long and hard before you agree to be mine because there's no going back."

         Softly, clearly, Alfred said, "I don't want to go back."

  
         Ivan opened the screen door and entered the kitchen, his movements slow and deliberate. Alfred's hand shook as he reached out to place his cup on the cabinet; then he turned to face him.

  
            Ivan put his hands-on Alfred's waist and gently drew him up against himself. His clothes were wet, and immediately the front of Alfred's t-shirt absorbed the moisture until the damp fabric was molded to his body. Alfred slid his hands up Ivan's shoulders to join at the back of his neck and lifted his mouth to his. Ivan's kiss was slow and deep, making his toes curl as hot excitement began to dart through him. Alfred knew how to kiss now and welcomed his tongue while he teased him with his own. Ivan’s chest lifted with a deep, sharp intake of breath, and his grip on Alfred tightened. Suddenly the kiss was no longer slow, but hungry and urgent, and the pressure of his mouth was almost painful.

  
            Alfred felt Ivan's callused palm sliding up his thigh. Ivan reached his hip and paused, shuddering with violent arousal as he realized he was naked under the long shirt; then his hand moved to his bare buttocks and caressed them. It was surprisingly pleasurable, and Alfred moved his bottom against his hand. Ivan had opened up an entirely new world for him, the world of sensual pleasure, and he was constantly expanding the limits.

  
          Ivan couldn't wait much longer, and he lifted Alfred in his arms. His face was hard and intent as he looked down at him.

  
          "Unless the house catches on fire, I won't stop this time." Ivan said quietly, "I don't care if the phone rings, or if anyone drives up, or even knocks on the bedroom door. This time, we finish it."

  
          Alfred didn't reply but gave him a slow, sweet smile that made him burn to take him right there. His arms tightened as he carried him up the narrow, creaky stairs and into his bedroom, where he carefully placed him on the bed. Ivan stood looking down at him for a moment, then walked to the window and raised it.

  
           "Let's let the storm in." He said, and then it was with them, filling the half-dark room with sound and vibration. The rain-chilled air washed over Alfred, cool and fresh on his heated skin. He sighed, the small sound drowned out by the din of thunder and rain.

  
          Thereby the window, with the dim grey light outlining the bulge and plane of powerful muscle, Ivan removed his wet clothing. Alfred lay quietly on the bed, his head turned to watch him. The shirt went first, revealing his sleek, heavy shoulders and washboard stomach. Alfred knew from touching him that he was unbelievably hard, with no give beneath his smooth skin. He bent down to tug off his boots and socks, then straightened and unbuckled his belt. The noise of the storm made his movements a pantomime, but he imagined the small pop as he unsnapped his jeans, then the hissing of the zipper as metal teeth pulled apart. Without hesitation, he pushed down his jeans and underwear and stepped free of them.

           He was naked. Alfred's heart jerked painfully in his chest as he stared at him, for the first time feeling remarkably small and helpless beside him. He was strong, and he was undeniably male. Alfred couldn't look away from his hard manhood. He was going to take him inside, accept his heavyweight as they joined in the act of mating, and he was a little frightened, ‘cos he knew this was going to hurt. Ivan saw it in his eyes as he eased down beside him.

          "Don't be afraid." He whispered, brushing Alfred's hair away from his face. His hands were gentle as he softly stroked Alfred's pale cheek.

  
           "I know what's going to happen." Alfred murmured, turning his face against Ivan's shoulder, "The mechanics of it, anyway. But I just don't see how it's possible."

           "It is. I'll take it slow and easy."

  
            "All right," Alfred whispered his acquiescence and let Ivan lift him so he could pull the t-shirt up his body. His chest was bare, and he could feel his nipples tightening and puckering. Ivan bent to kiss both nipples, wetting them with his tongue, and Alfred's back arched as heat spread through him. He quickly stripped the shirt away, the need to have him bare under his hands too urgent for him to ignore it any longer.

            Alfred quivered, then lay still. It was the first time since babyhood that anyone but himself had seen him completely nude; his cheeks heated, and he closed his eyes as he struggled with the sensations of embarrassment and painful exposure. Ivan ran his fingers over Alfred's chest, then his rough palm slowly moved down his stomach until his fingers stroked gently along Alfred's hard length. Alfred made a small sound, and his eyes flew open to find Ivan watching him with such a fierce, heated expression that he forgot his embarrassment. He was suddenly proud that Ivan wanted him so intensely, that his body aroused him. His legs relaxed, and Ivan moved one finger lower to brush softly over Alfred's entrance. Alfred's entire body tensed again, and he moaned. Ivan brought three fingers up to his mouth and wet them with his tongue, before returning to slide one finger slowly inside. Alfred hadn't known anything could feel like that, and he gasped as Ivan's finger brushed over something that made his back arch right off the bed. He sensed there was more, and he didn't know if he could survive it. This was a pleasure too intense to be borne.

            "Do you like that?" Ivan murmured.

             Alfred gasped, his slender body beginning to writhe slowly on the sheets in a rhythm as old as the ages. Ivan opened his legs farther with his hand, then returned to his sensual exploration, and at the same time bent to sink his lips down over Alfred's tip, pre-cum leaking onto his tongue. Alfred's head spun, and his nails dug into Ivan's scalp slightly as he clung to his hair. He couldn't believe how Ivan was touching him, sucking him, how it made him feel, but he never wanted it to stop. Ivan was causing a fever inside him, as he added a second, then the third finger, thrusting, stroking and scissoring him. The stretch bordered on pain, but the pleasure was one that spread and intensified until he was aware of nothing but his own body and Ivan's. His stroking fingers raised him to delirium while his mouth teased him closer and closer.

             "Ivan, please." He begged, frantic with need.

            "Just a minute longer, малыш. Look at me. Let me see your face when I—ahh."

            Alfred whimpered. Ivan was stroking against his sweet-spot constantly now, his black gaze was locked with Alfred's as he slowly slid his fingers around inside him, and they both shuddered convulsively.

  
             Ivan knew he couldn't wait any longer. His entire body was throbbing. Alfred was soft and incredibly tight, and he was writhing on the verge of ecstasy. His pale, translucent skin intoxicated him, enthralled him; just touching it made him wild. The textures of his body excited him more than anything he'd ever known before. Everything about the younger man was soft and silky. His hair was baby-fine, his skin delicate and satiny; even the curls between his legs were soft, rather than springy. He wanted him more than he wanted his next breath.

             Ivan moved between Alfred's legs, spreading them to make room for his hips to nestle against him, and drawing his knees up on either side of his hips. He spat on his palm and stroked himself for a moment or two, spit and pre-cum mixing to aid the slide. Ivan groaned as he rubbed his tip against Alfred's entrance. Alfred inhaled sharply as he felt him, hard and burning. Their eyes met again as he guided himself into position, then began entering him, nice and slow.

  
            The storm was right over them now. The lightning cracked, and the almost simultaneous thunder boomed, rattling the old house. The sharply gusting wind blew the curtains straight out into the room, spattering rain on the floor in front of the open window and carrying a fine mist over their bodies. Alfred cried, his tears mingling with the mist on his face, as he accepted his slow penetration.

  
                Ivan was braced over him on his forearms, his face just an inch from Alfred's. He licked the tears away, then kissed his mouth, and he tasted salt. Alfred could feel burning pain as his body stretched to admit him, and enormous pressure. More tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. Ivan deepened the kiss as his buttocks flexed, exerting more pressure, and suddenly his body's barrier gave way. Ivan pushed deep into him, burying himself to the hilt with a deep, almost tortured groan of pleasure.

  
              There was a pain, but there was also a lot more. Ivan had told him that making love was hot and sweaty and that he probably wouldn't like it, and he was both right and wrong. It was hot and sweaty, and raw, and primitive. It was so powerful that it swept him along with its rhythms. Despite the pain, he felt exalted by Ivan's possession. He could feel the tension and savage excitement in his powerful body as he cradled him with his legs and arms, his depths filled with him. Alfred loved him, and Ivan needed him. He had never really lived before, until this moment when he gave himself to the man he loved.

  
               He couldn't keep it back, not that it mattered. Ivan had to know already. Alfred had never worn an emotional mask. His hands moved over Ivan's sleek, wet shoulders and into his thick hair.

  
                "I love you," Alfred said, his soft voice barely audible over another booming roll of thunder.

                If he replied, Alfred didn't hear him. Ivan reached down between their bodies again, but this time his hand was on him, and he began moving while stroking Alfred's throbbing flesh with the same rhythm as his own thrusts. Heat shimmered through Alfred again, making the discomfort fade; his body arched, hips lifting in an effort to take him even deeper, and he told him again that he loved him. Sweat beaded Ivan's taut face as he tried to control his thrusts, but the storm was in the room, in their bodies. Alfred's hips undulated, rolling, driving him mad. They strained together, their movements punctuated by the thunder, by the thudding of the headboard against the wall, and by the creaking of the bedsprings beneath them. Low groans and soft cries; wet flesh and trembling muscles; hands clutching frantically; harsh, rapid breathing and urgent thrusts—Alfred knew all of that, felt it, heard it, and felt himself being consumed by the fever.

  
                "Ivan?" His questioning cry was thin, frantic. His nails dug into the flexing muscles of his back.

                "Don't fight it, baby. Let it go."

                He was groaning, feeling his own completion approaching, and he had no more control left. He removed his hand from between them and gripped Alfred's hips, lifting them, fitting himself more solidly to him and rocking against his loins.

            Alfred felt the tension and fever increase to unbearable levels, and then his senses exploded. He cried out, his entire body shuddering and clenching. It was the sweetest madness imaginable, a pleasure beyond description, and it continued until he thought he might die of it, as he covered both of their stomachs with his cum. Ivan held Alfred until he quietened, then began thrusting hard and fast. His guttural cries blended with the thunder as he crushed him against the mattress, his body convulsing as the powerful jetting of completion emptied him. Alfred clung to him, his bottom lip held fast between his teeth.

  
            They were silent afterward as if words would be an intrusion between them. Their mating had been so compelling and urgent that nothing else had existed. Even the storm, as violent as it was, had been only an accompaniment. Slowly, reluctantly, Alfred felt reality return, but he was content to lie beneath Ivan and do nothing more than stroke his hair.

              Their breathing had long since steadied and the storm moved away when Ivan disengaged their bodies and shifted onto his side. He cradled Alfred for a time, but now that their skin had cooled, the mist-dampened bed was distinctly uncomfortable. When Alfred began to shiver, Ivan got out of bed and crossed to the window to close it. Alfred watched as his muscles alternately bunched and relaxed with each movement of his nude body. Then he turned, and he was instant, helplessly, fascinated. He wished for the nerve to run his hands all over him, especially his loins. He wanted to inspect him, like an exploration, going over uncharted territory.

            "Like what you see?" Ivan’s voice was low and filled with amusement.

             Things had gone too far between them for Alfred to be embarrassed now. He looked up at him and smiled.

  
             "Very much. I imagined you once in a loincloth, but this is much better."

  
             Ivan reached down and plucked him from the bed as easily as if he were a feather.

   
             "We'd better get dressed before you get cold and before I forget my good intentions."

  
             "What good intentions?"

  
            "Not to keep at you until you're so sore you can't walk."

  
            Alfred looked gravely at him.

  
           "You made it wonderful for me. Thank you."

  
            "It was pretty damn wonderful for me, too." One side of his mouth quirked upward, and he slid his hands into Alfred's silky blonde hair, "No bad moments?"

  
             Alfred understood what he meant and leaned his head against Ivan's chest.

  
             "No. That was an entirely different thing." But he hadn't forgotten, either, and Ivan knew it. He was still shaky and vulnerable inside, though he kept his chin proudly lifted. Ivan intended for someone to pay for the damage done to Alfred's indomitable spirit.

              He'd spent years living quietly on the fringes, maintaining the sort of armed truce that had existed between him and the citizens of Calais, but no more. For Alfred, he would find the creep who had attacked him, and if the townspeople didn't like it, that was just too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I did it! two chapters! I'll see you guys in Saturday or Sunday, depending if I'm finished with my essays. As always please don't forget to comment and keep me motivated haha


	8. The Trigger

      Alfred threw Ivan's wet clothes into the dryer, then prepared a late breakfast. Neither of them talked much. Despite Alfred's determination to overcome his shock, he couldn't quite forget those horrifying moments when he had been helpless at the hands of a madman, for he certainly was mad. No matter what he was doing or thinking, a lightning flash of memory would catapult him back to the attack, just for a minute, until he could regain control and put it from him again.

 

      Ivan watched him, knowing what he was experiencing by the way his slight body would tense, then slowly relax. He'd lived through flashbacks, of Vietnam, of prison, and he knew how they worked, as well as the toll they took. He wanted to take Alfred to bed again, to keep the shadows at bay for him, but knew from the occasional slowness of his movements that he was too new to lovemaking for another bout right now to be anything other than abusive. When he was used to him... A very slight smile curved his lips as he thought of the hours of pleasure and all the different ways he would take him.

 

     But first, he had to find the man who had attacked him.

 

        When his clothes were dry, Ivan dressed and pulled Alfred out to the back porch with him. The rain had diminished to a drizzle, so he figured they wouldn't get too wet.

 

      "Come out to the barn with me." He said, taking his hand.

 

      "Why?"

 

        "I want to show you something."

 

        "I've been in the barn. There's nothing interesting in there."

 

          "There is today. You'll like it."

 

         "All right."

 

            They hurried through the drizzle to the old barn, which was dark and musty, without the warmth and rich, animal smells of his barn. Dust tickled Alfred's nose.

 

        "It's too dark to see anything."

 

         "There's enough light. Come on."

 

             Still holding his hand, Ivan led him into a stall where a couple of boards were missing from the wall, letting in the dreary light. After the darkness of the inner barn, he could see fairly well.

 

            "What is it?"

 

           "Look under the feed trough." Alfred bent down and looked. Curled up, in a nest of dusty straw and an old towel he recognized, was Coco. Curled against Coco's belly were four little rat-looking things.  He straightened abruptly.

 

          "Coco's a father!"

 

          "Nope. Coco's a mother."

 

          "A mother!" Alfred stared at the cat, who stared back at him enigmatically before beginning to lick the kittens.

 

           "I was specifically told that Coco is male."

 

             "Well, Coco is female. Didn't you look?"

 

           Alfred gave him a severe look.

 

           "I don't make a habit of looking at an animal's private parts."

 

             "Just mine, right?"

 

            Alfred blushed, but couldn't deny the charge.

 

             "Right."

 

           Ivan slipped his arms around Alfred's waist and pulled him close for a slow, warm kiss. He sighed and softened against him, reaching up to clasp the back of his neck as Ivan's mouth moved over his. The strength of his body reassured Alfred, made him feel safe. When Ivan's hard arms were around him, nothing could harm him.

 

        "I have to go home." Ivan murmured when he lifted his mouth from his.

 

          "Viktor will do as much as he can, but it takes both of us to get everything done."

 

     Alfred had thought he could handle it, but a panic seized him at the thought of being alone. Quickly he controlled himself and let his arms drop from around Ivan's neck.

 

          "Okay."

 

         He started to ask if he'd see him later but kept the words unsaid. Oddly, now that their relationship was so intimate, he felt far less sure of himself than he had before. Letting him get that close, letting him enter his body, had exposed a vulnerability he hadn't known was there. That kind of intimacy was a little scary.

 

        "Get a jacket," Ivan said as they left the barn.

 

          "I already have a jacket."

 

           "I meant, get one now. You're going with me."

 

            Alfred gave him a quick look, then dropped his gaze away from the awareness in his.

 

             "I have to be alone sometime." He said quietly.

 

         "But not today. Go on, get that jacket."

  

          He got the jacket and climbed up into Ivan's truck, feeling as if he had been reprieved from execution. Maybe by the time night came he would have his fears under control.

 

          Viktor came out of the barn as they drove up and walked to the passenger side of the truck. When Alfred opened the door, Viktor reached in and lifted him from the truck, then hugged him tightly.

 

           "Are you all right?" His young voice was gruff. Alfred hugged him in return.

 

            "He didn't hurt me. I was just scared."

 

            Over his head, Viktor looked at his father and saw the cold, controlled rage in those Violet eyes as they lingered on the slight man in his son's arms. Someone had dared to hurt him, and whoever it was would pay. Viktor felt a deep primitive anger and knew it was only a fraction of what Ivan felt. Their eyes met, and Ivan gave a slight shake of his head, indicating that he didn't want Viktor to pursue the subject. Alfred was here to relax, not relive the attack.

 

          Ivan approached and looped his arm over Alfred's shoulder, using the pressure to turn him toward the stable.

 

             "Feel up to helping with the chores?"

 

          Alfred's eyes lit.

 

           "Of course. I've always wanted to see how a ranch works."

 

          Ivan automatically shortened his long stride to match his as the three of them walked toward the stable.

 

        "This isn't a ranch, exactly. I run a small herd, but more for training and our personal beef than any other reason."

 

          "What sort of training?"

 

         "Training the horses to work for a herd. That's what I do. I break and train horses. Quarter horses mostly, for ranchers, but sometimes I handle the odd show horse or Thoroughbred, or a fractious pleasure mount."

 

          "Don't Thoroughbred owners have their own trainers?"

 

            He shrugged.

 

           "Some horses are harder to train than others. An expensive horse isn't worth a damn if no one can get near him." He didn't elaborate, but Alfred knew that he got the horses no one else was able to handle.

 

         The long stable jutted out to the right of the barn. When they entered, Alfred inhaled the rich earth scents of horses, leather, manure, grain, and hay. Long satiny necks poked over the stall doors, and inquisitive whickers filled the air. He had never been around horses much, but he wasn't afraid of them. He moved down the line, patting and stroking, murmuring to the animals.

 

          "Are these all quarter horses?"

 

          "No. That one in the next stall is a Canadian cutting horse—that's a type, not a breed. He belongs to a rancher in the next county north. Down in the last stall is a saddle-bred, for some big rancher's wife in Montana. He's going to give her the horse for her birthday in July. The rest of them are quarter horses."

 

             They were all young horses, and as playful as children. Ivan treated them as such, talking to them in a low, crooning tone, gentling them like overgrown babies. Alfred spent the entire afternoon in the stables with Ivan and Viktor, watching them attend to the endless chores of cleaning and feeding, checking shoes, grooming. The drizzle finally stopped in the late afternoon, and Ivan worked with a couple of the young quarter horses in the pen behind the stable, slowly and gently getting them accustomed to bits and saddles. He didn't rush them or lose his patience when a fractious young horse shied away from him whenever Ivan tried to lift a saddle onto his back. He just soothed the colt and reassured him before trying again. Before the afternoon was over, the colt was ambling around the pen as if he'd been wearing a saddle for years.

 

            Alfred was enthralled, partly by his low, velvety voice, and partly by the way his strong hands moved over the young animals, teaching and soothing all at once. Ivan had done that with him, but his hands had also excited him. He shivered as memories washed over him, and his nipples tightened.

 

              "I've never seen anyone like him." Viktor said beside him, keeping his tone low, "I'm good, but not near as good as he is. I've never seen a horse he couldn't settle down. We had a stallion brought to us a couple of years ago. He'd been put out to stud, but he was so damn vicious the handlers couldn't control him. Dad just put him in a stall and left him alone, but every so often he'd leave sugar cubes, apples or carrots on the top of the stall door and stand there until the stallion got a good look at him. Then he'd walk off, and the stallion would get whatever he'd left on the door." Viktor ran a hand through his hair.

 

             "The stallion started watching for him and snorting at him if Dad was taking his time about getting the food over there. Then Dad stopped moving away, and the stallion, Ringer, had to come up to the door while Dad was there if he wanted the food. The first few times, he tried to tear the stall apart, but finally he gave in and got the food. Next, he had to eat out of Dad's hand if he wanted his treat. Dad switched completely to carrots then, to make sure he didn't lose any fingers. Finally, Ringer was hanging his head over the stall, and he'd nuzzle Dad's shirt like a kid hunting candy. Dad petted him and groomed him—Ringer loved being brushed—and gradually broke him to the saddle and started riding him. I worked with him, too, after Dad had him settled down, and I guess he finally decided he didn't have to fight all the time. We had a mare come in heat, and Dad called Ringer's owner to ask if he wanted us to try Ringer on our mare. The guy gave his okay, Ringer performed like a real gentleman, and everybody was happy. The owner got his expensive stud civilized, and we got a hefty fee, as well as a hell of a colt out of the mare Ringer, covered."

 

          Alfred blinked at all this talk of being "in heat" and "covered," and cleared his throat.

 

           "He's wonderful." He agreed and cleared his throat again. His skin felt hot and sensitive. He couldn't take his eyes off Ivan, strong and lean and broad-shouldered, the weak sunlight glinting off his black hair.

 

          "When we get through here, maybe we could do a few lessons tonight since I missed Friday night," Viktor said, interrupting his thoughts.

 

              Alfred didn't like thinking about why he had missed Friday night, about the long hours spent waiting to hear if Ivan had been jailed. This afternoon had been a small oasis of calm, with the semblance of normality, but it would be a long time before things were back to normal in the county. A young girl had been raped, and Alfred had been attacked the very next day. People would be enraged and wary, looking at their neighbors and wondering. God help any stranger who happened to wander through, at least until the man was caught.

 

          Tires crunched on the gravel, and Viktor left his post to see who had ventured upon Braginsky's Mountain. He was back in a moment, with Clay Armstrong behind him. It was a replay of Friday afternoon, and Alfred felt his heart lurch; surely Clay wasn't going to arrest Ivan now?

 

          "Alfred." Clay nodded at him and touched the brim of his hat, "You doing okay?"

 

        "Yes." He said it firmly.

 

          "I thought I'd find you up here. Do you feel like going over it again with me?"

 

          Ivan pulled off his gloves as he approached. His eyes were flinty.

 

          "He went over it with you yesterday."

 

            "Sometimes people remember little things after the shock has passed."

 

           Because he sensed Ivan was about to throw Clay off his property, Alfred turned and put his hand on his arm.

 

          "It's okay. I'm okay."

 

             He was lying, and Ivan knew it, but his mouth had taken on that stubborn set that meant he wouldn't back down. Ivan felt a tinge of amusement; his kitten was getting back some of his confidence, after all. But no way was he going to let Clay question him alone. He looked at Viktor.

 

           "Put the horse up. I'm going with Alfred."

 

             "That isn't necessary." Clay said.

 

               "It is to me."

 

            Alfred felt dwarfed between the two big men as they walked up to the house; he thought he might soon find such protectiveness smothering. A smile touched his lips.

 

             Clay probably felt he had to protect him from Ivan as well as from another attack, while Ivan was determined to protect him, period. Alfred wondered what Clay would think if he knew that he didn't want to be protected from Ivan. Grandma would say Ivan had taken advantage of him, and Alfred earnestly hoped he would do so again. Soon.

 

          Ivan caught his sidelong glance and stiffened as he felt his interest and warmth. Damn it, didn't he know how he'd react, and that it could get embarrassing? Already he could feel the tension in his loins. But, no, Alfred didn't know. Despite their early morning lovemaking, he was still too innocent about sex in general, and the effect he had on him in particular, to know what that look did to him. He hurried his step. He needed to sit down.

 

            When they entered the kitchen, Alfred moved around making coffee as naturally as he would have in his own house, emphasizing to Clay that he and Ivan were a couple. Folks in the county were just going to have to get used to it.

 

            "Let's go through it from the beginning." Clay said.

 

            Alfred paused fractionally, then resumed his steady movements as he measured coffee into the percolator.

 

           "I'd just bought new boots at Hearst's store and was walking back to my car—my boots! I dropped them! Did you see them? Did anyone pick them up?"

 

         "I saw them, but I don't know what happened to them. I'll ask around."

 

          "He must have been standing against the side of Hearst's store because I'd have seen him if he had been on the other side of the alley. He just grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth. He held my head arched back, so I couldn't move it at all and started dragging me down the alley. I got one hand free and reached back, trying to scratch his face, but he had on a ski mask. He hit me in the head with his fist and I—I really don't remember much after that until he pushed me down. I kept scratching him, and I think I clawed his hand because he hit me again. Then I bit him on the hand, but I don't know if I drew blood. Someone yelled, and he got up and ran. He put his hand on the ground right in front of my face when he got up. His sleeve was blue, and he had freckles on his hand. A lot of freckles. Then... you were there."

 

             Alfred fell silent and moved to look out the kitchen window, his back to the men sitting at the table, so he didn't see the murderous look in Ivan's eyes or the way his big fists clenched, but Clay did, and it worried him.

 

            "I was the one who yelled. I saw the package lying on the ground and went over to see what it was, and then I heard scuffling from the back of the building. When I saw him, I yelled and pulled my revolver, and fired over his head to try to stop him."

 

          Ivan looked savage.

 

          "You should have shot the son of a bitch. That would have stopped him."

 

         In retrospect, Clay wished he'd shot the guy, too. At least then they wouldn't be racking their brains trying to put an ID to him, and the townspeople wouldn't be so jittery. Women were carrying an assortment of weapons with them wherever they went, even outside to hang the wash to dry. The mood people were in, it would be dangerous for a stranger to stop in the county.

         That was what bothered him, and he said as much.

 

         "It looks like someone would have noticed a stranger. Calais is a small town, and people pretty well know everyone in the county. A stranger would have been noticed right off, especially one with long silver hair."

 

        "Everyone would have thought it was me." Ivan gave a wintry smile.

 

            At the window, Alfred stiffened. He had been trying not to listen, trying to push away the memories that had been called up by his recounting of what had happened. He didn't turn around, but suddenly all his attention was focused on the conversation behind him. What Ivan had said was true. On seeing his attacker's long silver hair, Clay had immediately had Ivan arrested.

            But that long silver hair, so distinctive, didn't fit with the wealth of rust-colored freckles he'd seen on the man's hand. And his skin had been pale. Fair people freckled. The silver hair didn't fit.

 

             Unless it was a disguise. Unless the object had been to frame Ivan.

 

             Alfred's spine prickled, and he felt both hot and cold. Whoever had done it hadn't known that Ivan had had his hair cut. But the choice of victim was puzzling; it didn't make sense. Why attack him? Surely no one would think Ivan would attack the one person in town who'd championed him, and he'd made it plain how he felt. Unless he had been a random choice, it just didn't make sense. After all, there was no link between himself and Cathy Teele, no common ground. It could all be chance.

 

           Still, without turning around, he asked.

 

          "Ivan, do you know Cathy Teele? Have you ever spoken to her?"

 

            "I know her by sight. I don't speak to little American girls." Ivan’s tone was ironic, "Their parents wouldn't like it."

 

             "You're right about that," Clay said wearily.

 

             "A few months back Cathy told her mother you were the best-looking man around, and that she wouldn't mind dating Viktor if he weren't younger than she was. The whole town heard about it. Mrs. Teele pitched a fit."

 

            That chill ran down Alfred's spine again. There was a link, after all: Ivan. Nor could he dismiss it as coincidence, though something about the whole thing was skewed.

          He twisted his hands together and turned to face them.

 

            "What if someone is deliberately trying to frame Ivan?"

 

            Ivan's face went hard and blank, but Clay looked startled.

 

             "Damn..." Clay muttered, "Why did you think of that?"

 

            "The long silver hair. It could have been a wig. The man had freckles on his hand, a lot of freckles, and his eyes were green."

 

            Ivan got to his feet, and though Alfred knew he never had anything to fear from him, he fell back a step at the expression in his eyes. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. Alfred had seen him angry before, but this was different. He was enraged, but it was an icy rage, and he was in perfect control of himself. Perhaps that was what alarmed him.

 

         Then Clay said, "Sorry, but I don't think it'll wash. Once we had all thought about it, it didn't make sense that Ivan would have attacked you, of all people. You've stood up for him right from the beginning when the rest of the people in town—"

 

         "Wouldn't spit on me if I were on fire." Ivan finished.

 

         Clay couldn't deny it.

 

           "Exactly."

 

            The coffee had finished brewing, and Alfred poured three cups. They were silent and thoughtful as they sipped, all of them turning things around in their minds, trying to make the pieces fit. The Calais was that no matter how things were arranged, something was always off unless they went with the idea that a criminal had chosen Alfred and Cathy at random, and had perhaps used a long silver wig for disguise by pure coincidence. Everything in Alfred rejected the idea of coincidence. So that meant someone was deliberately trying to implicate Ivan. But why choose him as a victim? To punish Ivan by hurting the people who had championed him?

 

                It was all supposition, without a shred of evidence. Ivan had lived here for years without anything like this happening, even though his presence was like salt on the wound of the town's conscience. They didn't like him, and he didn't let them forget. Still, they had all existed under a silent truce.

 

             So, what had triggered the violence?

 

             Alfred rubbed his temples as a sudden twinge of pain threatened to become a full-scale headache. Since he seldom had headaches, he supposed the tension was getting to him, and determined not to let it. He'd never been a Nervous Nellie and didn't intend to start now. Clay sighed and pushed his empty cup back.

 

         "Thanks for the coffee. I'll get the report finished tomorrow. I'll bring the papers by the school for you to sign—uh, are you planning to go to work, or stay home?"

 

         "Why, work, of course."

 

           "Of course," Ivan muttered and scowled at him. Alfred lifted his chin at him. He saw no reason why he should suddenly become invalid.

 

             Clay left soon afterward, and Viktor came up from the stables to join in the dinner preparations. It felt right, the three of them together, working together as comfortably as if they had done so for years. Viktor winked at Alfred once, and he blushed because it was fairly easy to read the expression in his young-old eyes. Awareness, amusement, and approval were all there. Was he simply assuming he and Ivan had become intimate because Ivan had spent the night at his house, which he supposed was the common-sense thing to assume, or was there something different about him? What if everyone in town could just look at him and know?

 

            Ivan curved his hand around Alfred's waist. He had been standing motionless for several minutes, the pan in his hand forgotten, as he both frowned and blushed. The blush told Ivan what he was thinking, and the familiar tension in his body made his fingers tighten until they dug into Alfred's ribs. He looked up at him, his blue eyes wide and startled; then awareness shot into them, and his eyelids dropped to half veil the desire he couldn't disguise.

              Viktor reached to take the pan from his nerveless fingers.

 

          "I think I'll go see a movie somewhere," Viktor announced.

           Alfred jerked his head around, tearing himself from the sensual spell Ivan spun about him so easily.

 

           "No! Your lessons, remember?"

 

              "Another night won't hurt."

 

            "Another night will hurt." Alfred insisted.

 

              "The Academy isn't something you can take for granted just because Senator Allard is going to recommend you. You can't afford to let up for a minute."

 

               Ivan released him.

 

                "He's right, son. You can't let your grades slip." Ivan could wait. Barely.

 

                 It was after nine when Alfred closed the books he and Viktor had been using and stretched his arms over his head.

 

             "Could you take me home now?" Alfred asked Ivan, barely suppressing a yawn. It had been an eventful day.

 

              His face was impassive.

 

              "Why don't you stay here." It was more of a command than a suggestion.

 

               "I can't do that!"

 

                "Why not?"

 

                "It isn't proper."

 

           "I stayed with you last night."

 

              "That's different."

 

               "How?"

 

               "I was upset."

 

               "Your bed's too small. Mine's bigger."

 

               "I'm getting out of here," Viktor said and suited the action to the words. Alfred got huffy.

 

            "Did you have to say that in front of him?"

 

           "He knew anyway. Remember what I said about not going back?"

 

               Alfred stilled and said.

 

               "Yes."

 

           That warm look entered his eyes again.

 

            "I don't want to go back. But I can't stay here tonight. I have to go to work in the morning."

 

            "No one would think any less of you if you didn't." 

 

            "I would." He had that look again, the stubborn, determined expression of a fierce will.

            Ivan got to his feet.

 

           "All right. I'll take you home."

 

          He went into his bedroom and several minutes later reappeared with a small shaving kit in his hand and a change of clothes slung over his shoulder. He knocked briefly on Viktor' door as he passed it.

 

             "I'll be home in the morning."

 

              The door opened. Viktor was barefoot and shirtless, has been preparing to take a shower.

 

             "Okay. Are you going to take him to school, or do you want me to?"

 

            "I don't need anyone to take me to work." Alfred interrupted.

 

             "That's tough." Ivan turned back to his son.

 

            "Baugh is bringing a couple of horses up in the morning, so I'll have to be here. You take him to school, and I'll get him in the afternoon."

 

            "I'm driving my own car, and you can't stop me!"

 

              "That's okay. You'll just have an escort." Ivan crossed the floor to him and took his arm.

 

                 "Ready?"

 

               Realizing that he'd made up his mind and there wasn't anything he could do about it, Alfred walked with him out to the truck. The night air was growing cold, but Ivan's strong body radiated heat, and Alfred moved closer to him. As soon as they were in the truck, Ivan roughly took him in his arms and bent his head to Alfred's. The younger man opened his mouth beneath Ivan's onslaught and thrust his fingers into his thick hair. The warm taste of Ivan's mouth filled him; the pressure of his arms around his rib cage, of his hard-muscled chest against his, drugged him more surely than any sedative. If Ivan had pulled him down onto the seat and taken him right then, he wouldn't have objected.

 

                   As it was, when he put Alfred from him, his entire body was throbbing. He sat silently on the drive down the mountain, thinking of their lovemaking that morning, aching for it to be repeated. A thought echoed in his mind: so, this was what it meant to be in love.

 

                  Coco was waiting patiently on the back doorstep. Alfred fed him—her! —while Ivan showered and shaved. He didn't have a heavy beard, but two days' growth had darkened his jaw, and Alfred's face burned a little from contact with his when they had kissed. He felt that deep, almost painful sense of waiting again as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

 

              Ivan silently entered and stood for a moment watching Alfred before he sensed his presence and turned.

 

             "The shower's yours." Ivan was naked and slightly damp from the humidity in the bathroom. His silver hair glistened under the light, and glittering droplets of water were caught in the light curls of hair on his chest. He was already aroused. The throbbing in Alfred's body became acute.

 

             Alfred showered, and afterward, for the first time, sprayed cologne on his pulse points. He had never bought cologne in his life, but luckily one of his students in California had given him the bottle as a goodbye gift. The scent was sweetly exotic.

 

                  He opened the bathroom door, then gasped and fell back. Ivan was waiting for him in the doorway, his dark eyes narrow and fierce as they raked his slim body. Alfred had boldly left off his pajamas, and under Ivan's perusal, the deep throbbing intensified. He put his big hands on Alfred's nipples, and they tightened even before he began rubbing them with his thumbs. Alfred stood very still, his breath quick and shallow, his eyes half closed as he tried to deal with the pleasure Ivan's hands brought.

 

            Ivan's own eyes were narrow violet slits.

 

             "I wanted to do this the day I found you on the road." He murmured.

 

          "Such a pretty little body inside those ugly clothes. I wanted to take them off of you and see you naked." The heat in his eyes, in his voice, made Alfred shiver and sway toward him. Ivan pulled him out of the doorway and into the dark hall, then put his hands on his waist and lifted him. Alfred remembered when he had done that before and moaned even before Ivan's mouth closed over his nipple. He sucked it so strongly that Alfred's back arched, and he cried out as his legs parted and wrapped around Ivan's hips for balance. Ivan groaned, unable to wait much longer. He had to get inside him or go mad.

 

              Ivan brought one hand up to his mouth and wet three fingers then moved them down and behind Alfred, before gently pressing one inside. After a few minutes of carefully fingering and stretching the younger man, Alfred whimpering and mewling at the sensation, Ivan shifted him, then guided himself and entered him, slowly.

 

              Alfred gasped and shuddered, then went very still as Ivan slowly pushed into him. It still hurt at first, but it was even better than before. His inner muscles clasped and relaxed as he accommodated Ivan, sending waves of pleasure radiating out through his body. Alfred clung to him, gasping. Desire worked its magic on his body, tightening some muscles, loosening others, so that he was both taut and pliable as he slowly lifted himself, then sank back down. The effect of that small movement had both of them gasping, and Ivan shifted to brace his back against the wall. Alfred did it again, then again. Ivan put his hands on his buttocks to take control of the motion and began driving into him. Alfred's skin felt on fire. He radiated heat, making his skin feel tight and smooth and so extraordinarily sensitive that he could feel each of Ivan's fingers on his bottom, the rasp of his chest hair against his smooth skin, the tiny nubs of Ivan's nipples, the muscle wall of his belly, the coarse hair at his groin. Alfred could feel him deep inside of him.

 

          Alfred's back arched, and his nerves convulsed. Ivan fought his own response, not wanting it to end so quickly, and held him until he quietened. Then he carried him into the bedroom, Alfred's legs still locked around him, and eased him down on the bed.

         Alfred swallowed and relaxed his hold on him.

 

            "You haven't—?"

 

             "Not yet." Ivan murmured, and began moving strongly into him.

 

           Alfred didn't want it to end. He took his thrusts, cradled him when a harsh groan tore from his throat and the powerful shudders of completion shook him and afterward held Ivan as he rested on his body. Alfred didn't want him to withdraw, to leave him empty again. He had existed in a sort of genteel limbo all his life until he had met Ivan and begun to live. In just a few short months Ivan had so completely taken over the focus of his life that the years before were hazy.

          Ivan gathered himself and tried to move off him. Alfred tightened his legs around him, and he grunted.

 

          "Let me up, малыш. I'm too heavy for you."

 

           "No, you aren't," Alfred whispered and kissed his throat.

 

           "I weigh more than you do. Do you even weigh a hundred pounds?"

 

           "Yes," Alfred said indignantly. He weighed a hundred and five.

 

          "Not much more than that. I weigh two hundred, and I'm taller than you. If I go to sleep on you, you'll smother."

 

          He did sound drowsy. Alfred ran his hand down the muscled ridges of his side.

 

            "I want to stay like this."

 

          Ivan thrust gently into him.

 

           "Like this?"

 

           "Yes." He breathed the word.

 

         Ivan settled onto him but shifted part of his weight to the side. 

 

         "Is this okay?"

 

        It was wonderful. Alfred could breathe, but Ivan was still close to him, still inside him. Ivan quickly dozed off, as content as he with the position, and Alfred smiled in the darkness as he held him.

 

          The dark thoughts slowly intruded. Someone had deliberately tried to frame Ivan, to put him back in prison. The thought of Ivan without his freedom was obscene and scary because Alfred knew enough about him to know he would never let himself be sent to prison again.

            Alfred wanted to keep him safe, to shield him in his arms, putting his own body between him and danger. Dear God, what had started it all? Things had been so quiet! What had been the trigger?

 

              Then he knew, and horror almost stopped his breath. He had been the trigger.

 

             While Ivan and Viktor had been outcasts, punished for their heritage and Ivan's past, everything had been calm. Then Alfred had come to town, an Anglo, but instead of aligning himself with the townspeople, he had championed the Braginsky’s. With his help, Viktor had achieved an honor offered to very few. Other people had begun saying what a nice thing it was that the Braginsky boy was going to the Academy. Cathy Teele had said that Ivan was the best-looking man in the county. The boundaries between the town and the Braginsky’s had begun blurring. Someone, with a maggot of hate festering deep inside, had been unable to stand it.

 

              And Alfred had been the cause of it all. If anything happened to Ivan, it would be his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao, so I lied and worked on this instead of my essay due in a day lol wish me luck and don't forget to comment!


	9. The Plan

        Alfred didn't know what to do. The thought that he was the cause of all that had happened tormented him, disturbing his sleep. He moved restlessly, waking Ivan, and he sensed his distress though he attributed it to the wrong cause. Ivan soothed him with whispers and pulled him more completely beneath him. Alfred felt him harden inside him. His lovemaking was gentle this time, and when it was over he slept as effortlessly as a child until Ivan awoke him again in the total darkness before dawn. He turned to him without question.

 

 

          Viktor drove up just as Alfred and Ivan were preparing breakfast, and without a word, Ivan broke more eggs into a bowl to be scrambled. Alfred smiled at him, even though he was placing more bacon in the frying pan.

 

 

       "How do you know he's hungry?"

 

 

       "He's awake, isn't he? My kid eats like a horse."

 

 

        Viktor came in the back door and headed for the coffee, which had already finished brewing.

 

 

"Morning."

 

 

       "Good morning. Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes."

 

 

         Viktor grinned at Alfred, and he smiled back. Ivan watched him, his gaze sharp. He looked frail this morning, his skin pale and even more translucent than usual, with faint mauve shadows under his eyes. He smiled readily, but Ivan wondered what had made him look so delicate. Had he tired him with his lovemaking, or where memories of the attack disturbing him? He thought it must be the latter because he had responded eagerly every time he'd reached for him. Knowing that he was still frightened made Ivan even more determined to find whoever had attacked him. After Eli Baugh had delivered the horses and left, Ivan planned to do some tracking.

 

 

        Viktor was right behind Alfred's car on the way to the school, and he didn't leave immediately, as Alfred had expected. It was still too early for the students to begin arriving, so he walked with him into the empty building and even inspected the rooms. Then he leaned against the door-jamb and waited.

 

         Alfred sighed.

 

 

         "I'm perfectly safe here."

 

 

         "I'll just wait until some other people show up."

 

 

        "Did Ivan tell you to do this?"

 

 

        "Nope. He knew he didn't have to."

 

 

           How did they communicate? By telepathy? Each seemed to know what the other was thinking. It was disconcerting. Alfred just hoped they couldn't read his thoughts because he'd had some decidedly erotic ones lately.

 

 

         What would everyone think of Viktor's presence? He was so obviously, a watchdog. Alfred wondered if it would trigger another act of violence, and he felt sick because he knew it might. Instinct, sharpened by his fierce protectiveness for both Braginsky’s, told him that his theory was correct. Just the possibility that they could become accepted had driven someone over the edge. It revealed so much hate that he shivered.

 

 

       Sharon and Dottie entered the building and halted briefly when Viktor turned his head and looked at them as they passed the open door.

 

 

         "Mrs. Wycliffe. Mrs. Lancaster." He said in acknowledgment as he touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat in a brief salute.

 

       "Viktor…" Sharon murmured.

 

 

       "How are you?" Dottie gave him a brief, almost frightened look and hurried to her classroom. Viktor shrugged.

 

 

      "I've been doing a bit of studying." He allowed.

 

 

         "Just a bit?" Sharon asked wryly. She stepped past him to greet Alfred, then said... "If you don't feel like working today, Dottie and I can handle your classes. I never dreamed you'd be here today, anyway."

 

 

          "I was merely frightened," Alfred said firmly.

 

 

         "Clay prevented anything else from happening. Cathy is the one who needs sympathy, not I."

 

 

       "The whole town is in an uproar. Anyone who has freckles on his hands is getting the third degree."

 

 

          He didn't want to talk about it. The image of that freckled hand made him feel nauseated, and he swallowed convulsively. Viktor frowned and stepped forward. Alfred put up his hand to keep him from throwing Sharon out of the classroom, but at that moment several students entered, and their chatter distracted everyone. The kids said, "Hi, Viktor, how ya been?"

 

 

          As they clustered around him. They all wanted to know about his plans for the Academy and how he'd gotten interested.

 

 

         Sharon left to attend to her own classes, and Alfred watched Viktor with the kids. He was only fifteen, but he seemed older than even the seniors. Viktor was young, but he wasn't a kid, and that was the difference. Alfred noticed that Pam Hearst was in the group. She wasn't saying much, but she never took her eyes off Viktor, looking at him with both longing and pain, though she tried to hide it. Several times Viktor gave the girl a long look that made her fidget uncomfortably. Then he checked his watch and left his former classmates to speak to Alfred.

 

 

        "Dad will be here to follow you home. Don't go anywhere alone." Alfred started to protest, then thought of the man out there who hated them enough to do what he'd done. He wasn't the only one at risk. He reached out and caught his arm.

 

 

        "You and Ivan be careful. You could be the next targets."

 

 

       Viktor frowned as if that hadn't occurred to him. Alfred wouldn't have thought of it, either, if he hadn't been convinced that the whole thing was intended to punish the Braginsky’s. What greater punishment could there be than to kill them? At some point, the madman might decide to take a rifle and dispense his own twisted brand of justice.

 

 

        Clay showed up at lunch with the papers for him to read and sign. Aware of the kids watching them with acute interest, he walked with him out to the car.

 

 

        "I'm worried," Alfred admitted. Clay propped his arm on top of the open door.

 

 

         "You'd be foolish if you weren't worried."

 

 

         "Not for myself. I think Ivan and Viktor are the real targets."

 

 

        Clay gave him a quick, sharp look.

 

 

         "How do you figure that?"

 

 

         Heartened that he hadn't immediately dismissed the idea, but was watching him with a troubled expression in his eyes, Alfred told him his theory.

 

 

          "I think Cathy and I were specifically chosen as targets to punish Ivan. Don't you see the link? She said she thought Ivan was handsome, and that she'd like to date Viktor. Everyone knows I've been friends with them from the first. So, we were chosen."

 

 

          "And you think he'll attack again?"

 

 

        "I'm certain he will, but I'm afraid he'll go after one of them this time. I doubt he'd try to manhandle either of them, but what chance would they have against a bullet? How many men in this county have a rifle?"

 

 

          "Every last mother's son..." Clay replied grimly.

 

 

          "But what set this guy off?" Alfred paused, his face miserable.

 

 

             "I did."

 

 

             "What?"

 

 

          "I did. Before I came here, Ivan was an outcast. Everyone was comfortable with that. Then I made friends with him and worked with Viktor to get him into the Academy. A lot of people were a little proud of that and were friendlier. It was a crack in the wall, and whoever is doing this just couldn't stand it."

 

 

            "You're talking about a lot of hate, and it's hard for me to see. People around here don't get along with Ivan, but a lot of it is fear instead of hate. Fear and guilt. The people in this county sent him to prison for something he didn't do, and his presence constantly reminds them of it. He isn't a very forgiving person, is he?"

 

 

           "Something like that would be a little hard to forgive." Alfred pointed out. Clay had to agree with that and sighed wearily.

 

 

           "Still, I can't think of anyone who seems to hate him to the point of attacking two people just because they were friendly to him. Hell, Cathy wasn't even friendly. She just made a chance remark."

 

 

         "So, you agree with me? That all of this is because of Ivan?"

 

 

           "I don't like it, but I guess I do. Nothing else makes sense, because there may be a few coincidences in life, but none in crime. Everything has a motive."

 

 

            "So, what can we do?"

 

 

            "We won't do anything…" He said pointedly, "I will talk to the sheriff about it, but the fact is we can't arrest anyone without evidence, and all we have is a theory. We don't even have a suspect."

 

 

            Alfred's jaw set in firm lines.

 

 

            "Then you're passing up a marvelous chance."

 

 

            Clay looked suspicious.

 

 

         "To do what?"

 

 

         "Set a trap, of course."

 

 

          "I don't like this. I don't know what you're thinking, but I don't like it."

 

 

          "It's common sense. He failed in his—err, the objective with me. Perhaps I could—"

 

 

           "No. And before you get on your high horse, just think of what Ivan would say if you told him you were setting yourself up as bait. You might—might—be allowed out of his house by Christmas."

 

 

           That was true enough, but he saw a way around it.

 

 

           "Then I just won't tell him."

 

 

            "There's no way to keep it from him unless it didn't work. If it did work—I sure as hell wouldn't want to be around when he found out, and something like that couldn't be kept quiet."

 

 

         Alfred considered all of Ivan's possible reactions and didn't like any of them. On the other hand, he was terrified that something might happen to him.

 

 

         "I'll take the chance." He said, making his decision.

 

 

         "Not with my help, you won't."

 

 

            Alfred's chin lifted.

 

 

            "Then I'll do it without your help." A determination in his eyes.

 

 

          "If you get in the way of our investigations, I'll put you in the pokey so fast your head will spin…" He threatened. When Alfred didn't appear impressed, Clay swore under his breath.

 

 

           "Hell, I'll just tell Ivan and let him ride herd on you."

 

 

          Alfred frowned and considered shaking his schoolteacher's finger in his face.

 

 

           "You listen to me, Clay Armstrong. I'm the best chance you have of luring this guy out into the open. You don't have any suspects now. What are you going to do, wait until he attacks someone else and maybe kills them? Is that how you want to work it?"

 

 

          "No, that isn't how I want to work it! I want you and everyone else to stay alert and not go anywhere alone. I don't want to risk you or anyone. Have you thought that sometimes traps don't work, that the animal gets the bait and still gets away? Do you really want to face the possibility of that?"

 

 

        The thought made Alfred sick to his stomach, and he swallowed to control the sudden rise of nausea.

 

 

        "No, but I'd do it anyway." He said steadily.

 

 

        "For the last time, no. I understand that you want to help, but I don't like the idea. This guy is too unstable. He grabbed Cathy in her own driveway and took you off of the town's main street. The chances he took are crazy, and he probably is, too."

 

         With a sigh, Alfred decided that Clay was simply too protective for him to be able to agree to use him as bait; it was totally against his basic nature. That didn't mean, however, that he needed his agreement. All he needed was someone who could act as a guard. He hadn't thought of any real plan yet, but obviously, there had to be two people to make even the simplest trap work: the bait, and the one who kept the bait from being harmed.

 

 

        Clay got in the car and closed the door, then leaned out the open window.

 

 

        "I don't want to hear any more about it." He warned.

 

 

         "You won't."

 

 

        Alfred promised. Not talking to him about it wasn't the same as not doing it. Clay gave him a suspicious look, but started the car and drove away. Alfred returned to his classroom, his thoughts darting around as he tried to think of a solid plan for luring a rapist with a minimum of danger to himself.

 

          Ivan arrived at the school ten minutes before classes were over. He propped his shoulder against the wall just outside Alfred's classroom door and listened to his clear voice instructing his students on how geography and history had combined to produce the current state of Middle East politics. He was certain that wasn't in any of the textbooks, but Alfred had a knack for giving his students a way of relating the present to their studies. It made the subjects both more interesting and more understandable. Ivan had heard him doing the same thing with Viktor, not that Viktor needed encouragement to read. Alfred's students responded easily to him; in such a small class, there was very little formality. They called him "Mr. Jones," but weren't shy about asking questions, offering answers, even teasing.

 

           Then Alfred looked at his watch and released them, just as the doors to the other two classrooms opened. Ivan straightened from the wall and walked into his room, aware of how the kids' chatter halted abruptly when they became aware of his presence. Alfred looked up and smiled, a private smile meant only for him, and it made his pulse accelerate that he was so open about how he felt. Ivan removed his hat and shoved his fingers through his hair.

 

 

         "Your escort service has arrived, sir." He said.

 

          One of the girls giggled nervously, and Ivan slowly turned his head to look at the motionless teenagers.

 

 

            "Are you girls going home in pairs? Any of you boys making sure they get home all right?" Christa Teele, Cathy's younger sister, murmured that she and Pam Hearst were walking together. The other four girls said nothing. Ivan looked at the seven boys.

 

 

          "Go with them." It was an order, one that the boys obeyed instantly. The kids left the room, automatically separating so that each girl had at least one male escort.

 

        Alfred nodded.

 

         "Very nicely done."

 

 

         "You'll notice that they all had enough sense not to argue that they didn't need an escort."

 

 

         Alfred frowned at him because he felt it hadn't been necessary for him to make that point.

 

 

         "Ivan, really, I'm perfectly safe on the drive from my house to here. How could anything happen to me if I don't stop?"

 

 

          "What if you had a flat? What if a radiator hose blew again?"

 

 

           It was obvious there was no way he could set his trap if Ivan or Viktor was hovering over him every second. It was also obvious from the narrow look Ivan was giving him that he had no intention of changing his mind. Not that it mattered at the moment, as Alfred hadn't come up with a plan yet. But when he did, he would also have to come up with some scheme for slipping away from his watchdogs.

 

 

          Ivan draped Alfred's sweater over his shoulders and picked up his wallet and keys, then ushered him out the door. Dottie looked up from where she was locking her own classroom door and stood transfixed while Ivan locked Alfred's door, rattled the knob to make certain the lock held, then put his arm around Alfred's tiny waist. He saw Dottie and touched the brim of his hat.

 

 

         "Mrs. Lancaster."

 

 

         Dottie ducked her head and pretended to be having trouble with her key. Her face was flushed. It was the first-time Ivan Braginsky had ever spoken to her, and her hands shook as she dropped the key into her purse. Almost uncontrollable fear made her break out in a sweat. She didn't know what she was going to do.

 

 

           Ivan's arm was solid around Alfred's waist as they walked to his car. Its weight made his heartbeat quicken. All he had to do was put his hands on him and his body began to ready itself for him. An exquisite shudder began deep inside, spreading outward in a warm tide. Ivan felt the sudden tension in his slender body as he opened the car door. He was breathing faster, too. Ivan looked down at him, and his entire body tightened because he was watching him with desire plain in his soft, blue eyes. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted. Ivan stepped back.

 

 

         "I'll be right behind you. "The words were guttural.

 

          Alfred drove sedately home, though his blood was thundering through his veins and pounding in his ears. Never had the isolated, bedraggled old house looked better? Coco was sunning on the steps, and Alfred stepped over her to unlock the back door. Ivan was out of his truck and right behind him, just as he had promised, by the time he had the door open.

 

 

          Without a word, Alfred took off his sweater, deposited his wallet and keys on a chair and walked up the stairs, acutely aware of the heavy tread of Ivan's boots as he followed. They stepped into his bedroom.

 

 

          Ivan had him naked before he could gather his wits, though he wouldn't have wanted to protest even if he'd given him time. He bore him down on the bed, his strong body overwhelming him, his brawny arms cradling him, his fingers gently stretching him. The hair on Ivan's chest rasped his sensitive nipples into hardened peaks, and with a low moan of excitement, he rubbed his chest against him to increase the sensation. Ivan opened Alfred's thighs and settled himself between them. His voice was low and rough as he murmured in his ear an explicit explanation of what he was going to do.

 

 

           Alfred drew back a little, his blue eyes slightly shocked, feeling slightly excited, and also slightly embarrassed because he was excited. How was it possible to feel both scandalized and excited?

 

 

          "Ivan Braginsky!" He said, his eyes going even larger.

 

 

          "You said... that word!" Ivan's hard face looked both tender and amused.

 

 

            "So, I did."

 

 

            Alfred swallowed.

 

 

          "I've never heard anyone say it before. I mean, not in real life. In movies—but of course, that isn't real life, and in movies, it almost never means what it really means. They use it as an adjective instead of a verb." He looked perplexed at such an inexplicable grammatical oversight. Ivan was smiling as he entered him, his black eyes shining.

 

 

           "This..." He said, "Is the verb."

 

 

           He loved the way Alfred looked when he made love to him. His eyes languorous, his cheeks flushed. Alfred sucked in his breath and moved beneath him, taking him completely into him and enveloping him in his sweet heat. Alfred's hands moved up to the back of Ivan's neck.

 

 

          "Yes..." He agreed seriously, "This is the verb."

 

 

           If their first lovemaking had been fierce, since then Ivan had been teaching him how sweet it was when the pleasure was protracted, when the caresses and kisses lingered while tension slowly coiled within until it was so hot and powerful that it exploded out of control. His hunger for him was so strong that he tried to put off his climax for as long as possible, so he could stay inside him and feed that hunger. It wasn't a hunger for sex, per se, though it had a strong sexual base. He didn't simply want to make love, he wanted—needed—to make love to him specifically, to Alfred Arthur Way. He had to feel his silky, fragile skin under his hands, feel his soft body sheathing him, smell his unique scent of coffee and something sweet, that he couldn't quite identify, forge ancient bonds with each slow thrust and acceptance of their bodies. He was a half-breed; his spirit was strong and uncomplicated; his instincts close to those of his ancestors of both races. With other men, and women, he had had sex; with Alfred, he made love.

 

 

            He wrapped his arms around Alfred and rolled onto his back. Startled, Alfred sat up, accidentally assuming the exact position Ivan had wanted him in. Alfred gasped as the motion forced Ivan deep inside him.

 

 

          "What are you doing?"

 

 

         "Nothing..." Ivan murmured, reaching up to place his hands on the younger man's chest.

 

 

          "I'm letting you do the doing."

 

 

          He watched Alfred's face as he considered the situation and was aware of the exact second that his excitement and arousal overcame his discomfort with the unfamiliar position. His eyelids dropped again, and he bit his lower lip as he moved gently on him.

 

 

         "Like this?"

 

 

             He almost groaned aloud. That slow movement was exquisite torture, and Alfred quickly got into the rhythm of it. Ivan had thought to prolong their lovemaking by changing positions, but now he was afraid he'd outsmarted himself. As old-fashioned as Alfred was, he was also astonishingly sensuous. After a few minutes, Ivan desperately rolled again and put him under him. Alfred linked his arms behind his neck.

 

 

        "I was having fun." Alfred pouted.

 

 

         "So was I.." Ivan kissed him briefly, then again, their lips lingering together, "Too much."

 

 

           Alfred smiled, that secret, little smile he used only with him, and the sight of it made him burn. He forgot about control, forgot about everything but the pleasure that awaited them. Afterward, sated and exhausted, they both dozed. At the sound of a vehicle, Ivan rolled out of bed, instantly alert. Alfred stirred sleepily.

 

 

           "What is it?"

 

 

         "You have company."

 

 

           "Company?" Alfred sat up and pushed his hair out of his face.

 

 

            "What time is it?"

 

 

           "Almost six. We must have gone to sleep."

 

 

           "Six! It's time for Viktor' lesson!"

 

 

          Ivan swore as he began jerking on his clothes.

 

 

          "This situation's getting out of hand. Damn it, every time I make love to you my own son interrupts us. Once was bad enough, but he's making a habit of it."

 

 

            Alfred was scrambling into his own clothes, wishing that the circumstances weren't so embarrassing. It was hard to face Viktor when it was so obvious that he and his father had just been in bed together. Grandma would have disowned him for so forgetting his morals and sense of proper behavior. Then he looked at Ivan as he stamped his feet into his boots, and his heart felt as if it had expanded until it filled his entire chest. He loved him, and there was nothing more moral than love. As for proper behavior—he shrugged, mentally kissing propriety goodbye. One couldn't have everything.

 

 

          Viktor had deposited his books on the table and was making a pot of coffee when they entered the kitchen. He looked up and frowned.

 

 

         "Look, Dad, this situation is getting out of hand. You're cutting into my lesson time."

 

 

          Only the twinkle in his ice-blue eyes kept Ivan from getting angry; after a moment, he tousled his son's hair.

 

 

          "Son, I've said it before, but you've got lousy timing."

 

 

         Viktor' lesson time was even more limited because they had to take time to eat. They were all starving, so they decided on sandwiches, which were quick, and had just finished when another car drove up.

 

 

           "My goodness, this house is getting popular."

 

 

          Alfred muttered as he got up to open the door. Clay took his hat off as he entered. He paused and sniffed.

  

 

            "Is that coffee fresh?"

 

 

               "Yep."

 

 

           Ivan stretched to reach the pot while Alfred got a cup from the cabinet for Clay. He sprawled in one of the chairs and gave a weary sigh, which turned to one of appreciation as he inhaled the fragrant steam rising from the coffee as Ivan poured it.

 

 

           "Thanks. I thought I'd find you two here."

 

 

            "Has anything come up?" Ivan drawled.

 

 

          "Nothing except a few complaints. You made some people a little nervous."

 

 

          "Doing what?" Alfred interjected.

 

 

         "Just looking around," Ivan said in a casual tone that didn't fool Alfred at all, nor did it fool Clay.

 

 

         "Leave it alone. You're not a one-man vigilante committee. I'm warning you for the last time."

 

 

          "I don't reckon I've done anything illegal, just walking around and looking. I haven't interfered with any law officers, I haven't questioned anyone, I haven't destroyed or hidden any evidence. All I've done is look." Ivan's eyes gleamed, "If you're smart, you'll use me. I'm the best tracker you're going to find."

 

 

          "And if you're smart, you'll spend your time looking out after what's yours." Clay looked at Alfred, and he primed his mouth. Darn him, he was going to tell!

 

 

            "That's what I'm doing."

 

 

           "Maybe not as well as you think. Alfred told me about a plan he's got to use himself as bait to bring this guy out in the open."

 

 

              Ivan's head snapped around, and his brows lowered over narrowed black eyes as he pinned Alfred with a gaze so furious it was all he could do to keep his own gaze steady.

 

 

              "I'll be damned." He said softly, and it was an expression of determination rather than surprise.

 

 

              "Yeah, that's what I said. I heard you and Viktor are escorting him to and from the school, but what about the time in between? And school will be out in a couple of weeks. What about then?"

 

 

                 Alfred drew his slender shoulders up.

 

 

               "I won't be talked around as if I'm invisible. This is my house, and let me remind all of you that I'm well over twenty-one. I'll go where I want when I want."

 

 

                Let them make of that what they would! He hadn't lived with his grandma for nothing; Grandma would have died, just on principle, before she would have let a man tell her what to do.

                Ivan's eyes hadn't wavered from him.

 

 

               "You'll do what you're damn well told."

 

 

                 "If I were you," Clay suggested, "I'd take him up on the mountain and keep him there. As I said, school will be out in a couple of weeks, and this old house is pretty isolated. No one has to know where he is. It'll be safer that way."

 

 

                 Enraged, Alfred reached out and whisked the cup of coffee away from Clay, then dumped the contents in the sink.

 

 

                "You're not drinking my coffee, you tattletale!"

 

 

                 Clay looked astounded.

 

 

                 "I'm just trying to protect you!"

 

 

               "And I'm just trying to protect him!" Alfred shouted.

 

 

                "Protect who?" Ivan snapped.

 

 

                  "You!"

 

 

               "Why do I need protecting?"

 

 

                "Because whoever is doing this is trying to harm you! First by trying to frame you for the attacks, and second by attacking people who don't hate you as he does!"

 

 

                 Ivan froze. When Alfred had first advanced the beginnings of his theory the night before, he and Clay hadn't believed it because it simply hadn't made sense that anyone trying to frame Ivan would try to make anyone believe he would attack Alfred. But when he put it the way he just had, that the attacks were a sort of twisted punishment, it began to make horrible sense. A rapist was warped so his logic would be warped.

 

 

              Alfred had been attacked because of him. Because he had been so attracted to him that he hadn't been able to control it, some madman had attacked him, terrified and humiliated him, tried to rape him. Ivan's lust had brought attention to him.

 

 

             Ivan's expression was cold and blank as he looked at Clay, who shrugged.

 

 

                "I have to buy it..." Clay said, "It's the only thing that even halfway makes sense. When Alfred made friends with you and got Viktor into the Academy, folks began to look at you differently. Someone couldn't stand it."

 

 

                Alfred twisted his hands.

 

 

                  "Since it's my fault, the least I can do is—"

 

 

                 "No!" Ivan roared, surging to his feet and turning over his chair with a clatter. He lowered his voice with a visible effort.

 

 

                "Go upstairs and get your clothes. You're going with us."

 

 

                Viktor slapped his hand on the table.

 

 

              "About damn time!" Viktor got up and began clearing the table. "I'll do this while you pack."

 

 

              Alfred pursed his lips. He was torn between wanting the freedom to put his plan into action—when he thought of it—and the powerful temptation of living with Ivan. It wasn't proper. It was a terrible example to his students. The townspeople would be outraged. He'd watch him like a hawk! On the other hand, Alfred loved him to distraction and wasn't the least ashamed of their relationship. Embarrassed, sometimes, because he wasn't accustomed to such intimacy and didn't know how to handle it, but never ashamed.

 

 

              Also on the other hand, if he dug in his heels and remained here, Ivan would simply stay here with him, where they would be far more visible and far more likely to outrage the town's sensibilities. That was what decided him because he didn't want even more animosity directed at Ivan because of him. That could be all that was needed to goad the rapist into attacking him directly or going after Viktor. Ivan put his hands-on Alfred's shoulders and gave him a little push.

 

 

           "Go," Ivan said gently, and he went.

 

 

             When Alfred was safely upstairs and out of hearing, Clay looked at Ivan with a troubled, angry expression.

 

 

            "For what it's worth, he thinks you and Viktor are in danger, that this maniac may just start shooting at you. I kind of agree with him, damn it."

 

 

             "Let him try," Ivan said, his face and voice expressionless.

 

 

            "He's most vulnerable on the way to and from school, and I don't think this guy is going to wait patiently. He hit two days in a row, but he got scared when you nearly got him. It'll take a while for him to settle down, then he'll be looking for another hit to make. In the meantime, I'll be looking for him."

 

 

           Clay didn't want to ask, but the question was burning his tongue.

 

 

             "Did you find anything today?"

 

 

               "I eliminated some people from my list."

 

 

               "Scared some of them, too."

 

 

                Ivan shrugged.

  

 

              "Folks had better get used to seeing me around. If they don't like it, tough."

 

 

                "I also heard that you made the boys escort the girls home from school. The girls' parents were mighty relieved and grateful."

 

 

              "They should have taken care of it themselves."

 

 

             "It's a quiet little town. They aren't used to things like this."

 

 

            "That's no excuse for being stupid."

 

 

           And it had been stupid to overlook their children's safety. If he'd been that careless in Vietnam, he would have been dead. Clay grunted.

 

 

          "I still want to make my point. I agree with Alfred that you and Viktor are the primary targets. You may be good, but nobody's better than a bullet, and the same goes for Viktor. You don't just have to look after Alfred, you have to look after yourselves, too. I'd like it if you could keep him from even finishing out the year at school so the three of you could stay up on your mountain until we catch this guy."

 

 

         It went against Ivan's grain to hide from anyone, and that was in the look he gave Clay. Ivan had been trained to hunt; more than that, it was in his nature, in the genes passed down from his Russian heritage that ran through his body, in the formation of his character.

 

 

           "We'll keep Alfred safe."

 

 

          Was all he said, and Clay knew he'd failed to convince Ivan to stay out of it. Viktor was leaning against the cabinets, listening.

 

 

              "The people in town are going to raise hell if they find out Alfred's staying with us." He put in.

 

 

             "Yeah, they will."

 

 

              Clay stood up and positioned his hat on his head.

 

 

             "Let them." Ivan's voice was flat. He'd given Alfred the chance to play it safe, but he hadn't taken it. He was his now, by God. Let them squawk. Clay sauntered to the door.

 

 

              "If anyone asks me, I've arranged for him to live in a safer place until this is over. Don't reckon it's anyone's business where that place is, do you? Though of course, knowing Alfred, He'll probably tell everyone right out, just like he did Saturday in Hearst's store."

 

 

           Ivan groaned.

 

 

           "Hell! What did he do? I haven't heard about it."

 

 

             "Didn't reckon you would have, what with all that happened that afternoon. Seems he got into it with both Dottie Lancaster and Mrs. Karr, and all but told both of them he was yours for the taking."

 

 

               A slow grin shaped Clay's mouth.

           

 

           "From what I heard, he laced into them good."

 

 

          When Clay had left, Ivan and Viktor looked at each other.

 

 

               "It could get interesting around here."

 

 

               "It could."   Viktor agreed.

 

 

            "Keep an eye out, son. If Alfred and Armstrong are right, we're the ones this bastard is really after. Don't go anywhere without your rifle, and stay alert."

 

 

             Viktor nodded. Ivan wasn't worried about hand-to-hand fighting, not even if the other guy was armed with a knife, because he'd taught Viktor how to fight the way he'd learned in the military. Not karate, kung fu, tae kwon do, or even judo, but a mixture of many, including good old street fighting. The object of a fight wasn't fair, but winning, in any way possible, with any weapon handy. It was what had kept him alive and relatively unscathed in prison. A rifle was something else, though. They would have to be doubly alert.

 

 

            Alfred returned and plunked two suitcases on the floor.

 

 

             "I have to have my books, too." He announced. "And someone has to get Coco and her kittens."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finished one (1) essay out of the three (3) that I have lmao so here. As always please comment!


	10. First Dance

          Alfred tried to tell himself that he couldn't sleep because he was in a strange bed, because he was too excited, because he was too worried, because—he ran out of excuses and couldn't think of anything else. Though he was pleasantly tired from Ivan's lovemaking, he felt too uneasy to sleep and finally knew why. He turned in Ivan's arms and put his hand on his jaw, loving the feel of his facial structure and the slight rasp of his beard beneath his fingers.

 

 

          "Are you awake?" He whispered.

 

 

            "I wasn't..." Ivan said in a low rumble, "But I am now."

 

 

           Alfred apologized and lay very still. After a moment, Ivan squeezed him and pushed his hair away from his face.

 

 

            "Can't you sleep?"

 

 

             "No. I just feel—strange, I think."

 

 

              "In what way?"

 

 

             "Your wife—Viktor' mother. I was thinking of her in this bed."

 

 

              Ivan's arms tightened.

 

 

               "She was never in this bed."

 

 

              "I know. But Viktor is in the other room, and I thought this was how it must have been when he was little before she died."

 

 

             "Not usually. We were apart a lot, and she died when Viktor was two. That was when I got out of the military."

 

 

               "Tell me about it?" Alfred invited, still in a whisper. He needed to know more about this man he loved, “You must have been very young."

 

 

             "I was seventeen when I enlisted. Even though I knew I'd probably have to do a tour in Vietnam, it was my only way out. My folks were dead, and my grandfather, Mother's father, never really accepted me because I lived in the U.S and according to him, I wasn’t Russian enough. All I knew was that I had to get out of Wyoming, that’s where my father and I immigrated to when we escaped Russia. We lived in a small secluded town. Right next to the town there was a reservation. The Native Americans were wary of us, but we saw a lot of them since my father and I raised horses."

 

           He sighed.

 

            "I met Billie when I was eighteen. She was a Crow Native American, and I guess she married me because she knew I'd never go back to Wyoming, the reservation. She wanted more. She wanted bright lights and city life. Maybe she thought a soldier had it good, transferring from base to base, partying when he was off duty. But she didn't look down on me because I was Russian, and we decided to get married. A month later I was in ‘Nam. I got her a ticket to Hawaii when I had R and R, and she went back pregnant. Viktor was born when I was nineteen, but I was home from my first tour and got to see him being born. God, I was so excited. He was screaming his head off. Then they put him in my hands, and it was like taking a heart punch. I loved him so much I would have died for him." He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he gave a low laugh.

 

 

           "So, there I was, with a newborn son and a wife who didn't think she'd gotten such a good deal, and my enlistment was almost up. I had no prospects of a job, no way of supporting my baby. So, I re-upped, and things got so bad between Billie and me that I volunteered for another tour. She died right before my third tour ended, she was sick from the flu and just couldn't get better. I got out and came home to take care of Viktor."

 

 

        "What did you do?"

 

 

              "Worked ranches. Rodeoed. It was all I knew. Except for the time I spent in service, I can't remember not working with horses. I was horse crazy when I was younger, and I guess I still am. Viktor and I drifted around until it was time for him to start school, and we landed in Calais. You know the rest of it."

 

 

                Alfred lay quietly in his arms, thinking of his life. He hadn't had it easy. But the life he'd led had shaped him into the man he was, a man of strength and iron determination. He had endured war and hell and come out even stronger than before. The thought that someone would want to harm him made Alfred so angry he could barely contain it. Somehow, he had to find some way to protect him.

 

* * *

 

 

             Ivan escorted Alfred to school the next morning, and again Alfred was aware of how everyone stared at him. But it wasn't fear or hatred he saw in the kids' eyes; rather, they watched him with intense curiosity, and even awe. After years of tales, he was a larger-than-life figure to them, someone glimpsed only briefly. Their fathers had dealt with him, the boys had watched him at work, and his expertise with horses only added to tales about him. It was said that he could "whisper" a horse, that even the wildest one would respond to a special crooning tone in his voice.

 

 

          Now he was hunting the rapist. The story was all over the county.

 

 

        Dottie wouldn't even talk to Alfred that day; she walked away whenever he approached and even ate lunch by herself. Sharon sighed and shrugged.

 

 

           "Don't pay any attention to her. She's always had a burr under her blanket about the Braginsky’s."

 

 

            Alfred shrugged, too. There didn't seem to be any way he could reach Dottie.

 

 

             Viktor drove into town that afternoon to follow him home. As they walked out to their respective vehicles, Alfred told him.

 

 

             "I need to stop at Hearst's for a few things."

 

 

              "I'll be right behind you."

 

 

         Viktor was on his heels when he entered the store, and everyone turned to look at them. Viktor gave them a smile that could have come straight from his father, and several people hastily looked away. Sighing, Alfred led his six-foot watchdog down the aisle.

          Viktor paused fractionally when his gaze met that of Pam Hearst. She was standing as if rooted, staring at him. He tipped his hat and followed Alfred. A moment later he felt a light touch on his arm and turned to see Pam standing behind him.

 

 

           "Could I talk to you?" She asked in a low voice.

 

 

            "I—it's important. Please?" Alfred had moved on. Viktor shifted his position so he could keep him in sight and said, "Well?"

 

 

             Pam drew a deep breath.

 

 

             "I thought... maybe... would you go with me to the town dance this Saturday night?” She finished in a rush.

 

          Viktor' head jerked.

 

 

             "What?"

 

 

            "I said—will you go with me to the dance?"

 

 

            He thumbed his hat back and gave a low whistle under his breath.

 

 

            "You know you're asking for trouble, don't you? Your dad just might lock you in the cellar for a year."

 

 

           "We don't have a cellar." She gave him a small smile, one that had an immediate reaction to his sixteen-year-old hormones.

 

 

            "And I don't care, anyway. He's wrong, wrong about you and your dad. I've felt horrible about how I acted before. I—I like you, Viktor, and I want to go out with you."

 

 

             Viktor was cynical enough to say, "Yeah. A lot of people started liking me when they found out I had a shot at the Academy. Sure, funny how that worked out, isn't it?"

 

 

             Hot spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

 

 

            "That's not why I'm asking you out!"

 

 

             "Are you sure? It seems I wasn't good enough to be seen in public with you before. You didn't want people to say Pam Hearst was going out with a 'commie'. It's different when they can say you're going out with a candidate for the Air Force Academy."

 

 

           "That's not true!" Pam was truly angry now, and her voice rose. Several people glanced their way.

 

 

           "It looks that way to me."

 

 

           "Well, you're wrong! You're just as wrong as my dad is!"

 

 

             As if he'd been cued, Mr. Hearst, alerted by Pam's raised voice, started down the aisle toward them.

 

 

              "What's going on back here? Pam, is this comm- er - boy bothering you?"

 

 

               Viktor noticed how quickly "commie" had been changed to "boy" and lifted his eyebrows at Pam. She flushed even redder and whirled to face her father.

 

 

                   "No, he isn't bothering me! Wait. Yes. Yes, he is! He's bothering me because I asked him to go out with me and he refused!" Everyone in the store heard her. Viktor sighed. The fat was in the fire now. Ralph Hearst turned purplish red, and he halted in his tracks as abruptly as if he'd hit a wall.

 

 

                "What did you say?" He gasped, evidently not believing his ears. Pam didn't back down, even though her father looked apoplectic.

 

 

                "I said he refused to go out with me! I asked him to the Saturday night dance."

 

 

                Mr. Hearst's eyes were bulging out of their sockets.

 

 

               "You get on to the house. We'll talk about this later!"

 

 

             "I don't want to talk about it later, I want to talk about it right now!"

 

 

              "I said get on to the house!" Hearst roared. He turned his infuriated gaze on Viktor, "And you stay away from my daughter, you—"

 

 

                "He's been staying away from me!" Pam yelled, "It's the other way around! I won't stay away from him! This isn't the first time I've asked him out. You and everyone else in this town are wrong for the way you've treated the Braginsky’s, and I'm tired of it. Mr. Jones is the only one of us who's had the guts to stand up for what he thinks is right!"

 

 

             "This is all his fault, that do-gooding—"

 

 

                "Stop right there," Viktor spoke for the first time, but there was something in his cool voice, in his pale blue eyes, that stopped the man. Viktor was only sixteen, but he was tall and muscular as his father, and there was a sudden alertness to his stance that made the older man paused.

 

 

              Pam jumped in. She was bright and cheery-natured, but as headstrong as her father.

 

 

               "Don't start on Mr. Jones." She warned, "He's the best teacher we've ever had here in Calais, and if you do anything to get rid of him, I swear I'll drop out of school."

 

 

                "You'll do no such thing!"

 

 

                "I swear I will! I love you, daddy, but you're wrong! All of us talked about it at school today, about how we'd seen the teachers treat Viktor over the years, and how wrong it was, because he's obviously the smartest of us all! And we talked about how Ivan Braginsky was the one who made sure all of us got home all right yesterday. No one else thought of it! Or don't you care?"

 

 

                  "Of course, he cares," Alfred said briskly, having walked up without anyone except Viktor noticing.

 

 

                  "It's just that Ivan, with his military experience, knew what to do." He'd made that up, but it sounded good. He put his hand on Mr. Hearst's arm.

 

 

             "Why don't you take care of your customers and just let them fight it out? You know how teenagers are."

 

 

             Somehow Ralph Hearst found himself at the front of the store again before he realized it. He stopped and looked down at Alfred.

 

 

              "I don't want my girl dating that commie!" He said fiercely.

 

 

              "She'll be safer with that ‘commie’ than with any other boy around." Alfred replied, "For one thing, he's steady as a rock. He won't drink or drive fast, and for another, he has no intention of getting involved with any girl around here. He'll be going away, and he knows it."

 

 

              "I don't want my daughter dating a Russian!"

 

 

             "Are you saying that character doesn't mean anything? That you'd rather have Pam go out with a drunk American, who might get her killed in a car accident than with a sober Russian, who would protect her with his life?"

 

 

             Mr. Hearst looked stricken and rubbed his head in agitation.

 

 

              "No, damn it, that isn't what I mean." He muttered.

 

 

                Alfred sighed.

 

 

                  "My Grandma remembered every old chestnut she ever heard, and one of the ones she brought out most often was 'pretty is as pretty does.' You go by how people act, don't you, Mr. Hearst. You've voted according to how the candidates have stood on issues in the past, haven't you?"

 

 

               "Of course." He looked uncomfortable.

 

 

                "And?" He prompted.

 

 

                "All right, all right! It's just—some things are hard to forget, you know? Not things that Viktor has done, but just... things. And that father of his is—"

 

 

                "As proud as you are." Alfred cut in, "All he ever wanted was a place to raise his motherless son." He was laying it on so thick he expected to hear violins in the background any moment now, but it was about time these people realized some things about Ivan. Maybe he was more controlled than civilized, but his control was very good, and they would never know the difference.

 

 

               Deciding it was time to give him some breathing room, Alfred said, "Why not talk it over with your wife?"

 

 

              He looked relieved at the suggestion.

 

 

              "I'll do that."

 

 

           Viktor was walking up the aisle; Pam, who had turned her back, was busily neatening a stack of paint thinner in an obvious effort to act casual. Alfred paid for the items he'd gathered, and Viktor lifted the sack. Silently they walked out together.

 

 

           "Well?" Alfred asked as soon as they were outside.

 

 

            "Well, what?"

 

 

            "Are you taking her to the dance?"

 

 

           "It looks like it. She won't take no for an answer, like someone else I know."

 

 

          Alfred gave him a prim look and didn't respond to his teasing. Then, Viktor opened the car door for him, a thought struck, and he looked at Viktor in horror.

 

 

            "Oh, no.." Alfred said softly, "Viktor, that man is attacking people who are friendly to you and Ivan."

 

 

             Viktor’s whole body jerked, and his mouth tightened.

 

 

             "Damn..." Viktor swore. He thought a minute, then shook his head, "I'll tell her tomorrow that I can't go."

 

 

           "That won't do any good. How many people heard her say what she did? It will be all over the county by tomorrow, whether you take her to the dance or not."

 

 

           Viktor didn't reply, merely closed the door after Alfred had gotten into the car. He looked grim, far too grim for a boy his age. Viktor felt grim, too, but an idea was taking form. He'd watch out for Pam and warn her so she'd be on guard, but maybe this would draw the rapist out. He'd use Alfred's plan, but with different bait: himself. He'd make certain Pam was safe, but leave himself open at times when he was alone. Maybe, when the guy realized he couldn't get at a helpless woman, he'd get so frustrated he'd go after one of his real targets. Viktor knew the chance he was taking, but unless Ivan could find the track he was looking for, he didn't see any other option.

 

 

            Alfred looked around for Ivan when they got home, but he couldn't find him. He changed into jeans and walked outside. He found Viktor in the barn, grooming a horse.

 

 

              "Is Ivan out here?"

 

 

           He shook his head and continued brushing the horse's gleaming hide.

 

 

            "His horse is gone. He's probably checking fences." Or hunting for a certain track, but he didn't say that to Alfred.

 

 

              Alfred got Viktor to show him how to brush the horse and took over for him until his arm began to hurt. The horse snorted when he stopped, so he went back to brushing.

 

 

            "This is harder than it looks." He panted.

 

            Viktor grinned at him over the back of another horse.

 

 

           "It'll give you a few muscles. But you've finished with him, so don't spoil him. He'll stand there all day if someone will keep brushing him." Alfred stopped and stepped back.

 

 

        "Well, why didn't you say so?"

 

 

           Viktor put the horse in his stall, and Alfred walked back to the house. He had almost reached the porch when he heard the rhythmic thudding of a horse's hooves and turned to see Ivan riding up. He caught his breath. Even though he was ignorant about horses, he knew that not many people looked the way he did on a horse. There was no bouncing or jiggling; he sat so easily in the saddle and moved so fluidly with the animal, that he looked motionless. The Russians had arguably been the world's best horsemen, better even than the Americans or Europeans, and Ivan had learned well from his father's people. His powerful legs controlled the big bay stallion he was riding so that the reins were lightly held and no harm done to the horse's tender mouth. He slowed the horse to a walk as he approached him.

 

 

          "Any trouble today?"

 

 

           Alfred decided not to tell him about Pam Hearst. That was Viktor' business if he wanted it known. He knew he'd tell Ivan but in his own time.

 

 

            "No. We didn't see anyone suspicious, and no one followed us."

 

 

           He reined in and leaned down to brace his forearm on the saddle horn. His dark eyes drifted over Alfred's slim figure.

 

 

            "Do you know how to ride?"

 

 

             "No. I've never been on a horse."

 

 

             "Well, that situation is about to be remedied."

 

 

             He kicked his boot free of the stirrup and held his hand out to him.

 

 

            "Put your left foot in the stirrup and lift yourself as I swing you up."

 

 

                Alfred was willing. He tried. But the horse was too tall, and he couldn't reach the stirrup with his foot. He was staring at the bay with an aggravated expression when Ivan laughed and shifted back in the saddle.

 

 

          "Here, I'll pick you up."

 

 

              He leaned out of the saddle and caught Alfred under the arms. Alfred gasped and grabbed at his biceps as he felt his feet leave the ground; then Ivan straightened and set him firmly on the saddle in front of him. Alfred grabbed the saddle horn as Ivan lifted the reins, and the horse moved forward.

 

 

          "This is a long way up," Alfred said, bouncing so hard his teeth rattled. Ivan chuckled and wrapped his left arm around him, pulling him back against him.

 

 

          "Relax and let yourself go with the horse's rhythm. Feel how I'm moving and move with me."

 

 

          He did as Ivan said and felt the rhythm as soon as he relaxed. His body automatically seemed to sink deeper into the saddle, and his torso moved with Ivan's. The bouncing stopped. Unfortunately, by that time they had reached the barn and his first ride was over. Ivan lifted him down and dismounted.

 

 

         "I liked that," Alfred announced.

 

 

         "You did? Good. We'll start you on riding lessons tomorrow." Viktor' voice came to them from a stall farther down.

 

 

           "I started him on grooming lessons today."

 

 

              "You'll be as comfortable with horses as if you'd been around them all of your life," Ivan said and leaned down to kiss him. Alfred went on tiptoe, his lips parting. It was a long moment before Ivan lifted his head, and when he did, his breathing was faster. His eyes were hooded and narrow. Damn, Alfred got to him so fast he reacted like a teenager when he was around him.

             When Alfred had gone back to the house, Viktor came out of the stall and looked at his father.

 

 

            "Find anything today?"

 

 

             Ivan began unsaddling the bay.

 

 

              "No. I've had a good look around the ranches, but none of the prints match. It has to be someone from town."

 

 

                 Viktor frowned.

 

 

                 "That makes sense. Both of the attacks were in town. But I can't think of anyone it could be. I guess I've never noticed before if someone has freckled hands."

 

 

              "I'm not looking for freckles, I'm looking for that print. I know how he walks, toeing in a little and putting his weight on the outside of his feet."

 

 

             "What if you find him? Do you think the sheriff will arrest him just because he has freckles on his hands and walks a certain way?"

 

 

              Ivan smiled, a movement of his lips that was totally without mirth. His eyes were cold.

 

 

              "When I find him…" He said softly, "If he's smart, he'll confess. I'll give the law a chance, but there's no way he'll walk free. He'll be a lot safer in jail than out on the streets, and I'll make certain he knows it."

 

* * *

 

              It was an hour before they finished with the horses. Viktor lingered to look over his tack, and Ivan walked up to the house alone. Alfred was absorbed in cooking, humming as he stirred the big pot of beef stew, and he didn't hear Ivan come in the back door. He walked up behind him and put his hand on his shoulder.

 

 

             Blind terror shot through him. Alfred screamed and threw himself sideways, to press his back against the wall. He held the dripping spoon in his hand like a knife. His face was utterly white as he stared at Ivan.

 

 

             Ivan's face was hard. In silence, they stared at each other, time stretching out between them. Then Alfred dropped the spoon on the floor with a clatter.

 

 

             "Oh God, I'm sorry." He said in a thin voice and covered his face with his hands. Ivan drew Alfred to him, his hand in his hair, holding his head to his chest.

 

 

         "You thought it was him again, didn't you?"

 

 

           Alfred clung to him, trying to drive away the terror. It had come out of nowhere, taking him by surprise and shattering the control he'd managed to gain over his memory and emotions. When Ivan's hand had touched his shoulder, for a brief, horrifying moment it had been happening all over again. He felt cold; He wanted to sink into Ivan's warmth, to let the reality of his touch overcome the hideous memory of another touch.

 

 

           "You don't have to be afraid..." Ivan murmured into his hair, "You're safe here."

 

 

             But he knew his memory was still there, that a touch from behind meant a nightmare to him. Somehow, he had to take away that fear so he could be free of it.

 

 

              Alfred regained control and eased himself away from him, and Ivan let him because he knew it was important to him. Alfred appeared almost normal through dinner and Viktor' lesson; the only sign of strain was an occasional haunted expression in his eyes as if he hadn't completely succeeded in pushing the memory away.

 

 

           But when they went to bed and Alfred's silky body was under his hands, he turned to Ivan as eagerly as ever. Ivan's lovemaking left him no room for anything else, no lingering memories or vestiges of terror. His entire body and mind were occupied with him. Afterward, he curled against him and slept undisturbed, at least until the greying dawn, when Ivan woke him and pulled him beneath him again.

 

 

           Alfred was fully aware of the tenuousness of both his relationship with Ivan and his presence in his house. Ivan often told him explicitly how much he wanted him, but in terms of lust, not love. He never spoke a word about loving, not even during lovemaking, when Alfred was unable to keep from telling him over and over that he loved him. When the fever of lust passed, Ivan might well cut him out of his life, and he tried to prepare himself for that possibility even while he absorbed the maximum pleasure from the present situation.

 

 

           Alfred knew that living with Ivan was for his protection, and only temporary. He also knew that it was nothing short of scandalous for a small-town schoolteacher to shack up with the local black sheep, and another man at that, and that was exactly how the townspeople would view the situation if they knew about it. Alfred knew the risk he was taking with his career and decided that the days and nights with Ivan were worth it. If he lost his job, there were other jobs, but he knew there would be no other loves for him. He was twenty-five and had never even felt a twinge of interest or excitement over any other man. Some people loved only once, and it appeared he was one of them.

 

 

             The only time he allowed himself to worry over the future was on the drives to and from school, when He was alone in the car. When he was with Ivan, he didn't want to waste even a single second on regrets. With him, he was totally alive.

 

 

               He worried about Ivan and Viktor, too. He knew Ivan was actively hunting the man who had attacked him, and he was terrified he would be hurt. He couldn't let himself even think that Ivan might be killed. And Viktor was up to something; he knew it. He was too much like Ivan for him not to recognize the signs. He was preoccupied, and far too sober as if faced with making a choice when neither of the alternatives was very attractive. But Alfred couldn't get him to open up to him, and that alone frightened him, for Viktor had talked to him from the beginning.

 

 

              Viktor was on edge. He'd told Pam to be more cautious than usual, and he tried to make certain she never walked home alone, but there was always a chance she'd be careless. He'd also made a point of letting himself be seen alone, and evidently unaware of the need for caution, but nothing happened. The town was quiet, if edgy. He was forced to the same awareness that Ivan already had, that with so few clues, all they could do was stay alert and wait until the man made a mistake.

 

 

             When Viktor told his father that he was going to the dance with Pam, Ivan looked piercingly at the boy.

 

 

              "Do you know what you're doing?"

 

 

                   "I hope so."

 

 

             "Watch your back."

 

 

             The terse advice brought a thin smile to Viktor' mouth. He knew he could be making a big mistake by going to that dance, that the scene could turn ugly, but he'd told Pam he'd take her, and that was that. He'd have to be doubly alert, but damn, he wanted to hold her in his arms while they shuffled slowly across the sawdust floor. Even though he knew he was going away and they'd never have anything permanent between them, he was strongly attracted to her. He couldn't explain it and knew it wouldn't last, but he felt it now, and it was now that he had to deal with it

 

 

              Pam was edgy, too, when he picked her up. She tried to hide it by talking too fast and too brightly until he put his hand over her mouth.

 

 

           "I know..." He muttered, "It worries me, too."

 

 

             She tossed her head, freeing her mouth.

 

 

              "I'm not worried. It'll be all right, you'll see. I told you, all of us have talked about it."

 

 

              "Then why are you so nervous?"

 

 

           She looked away from him and cleared her throat.

 

 

            "Well, this is the first time I've been out with you. I just felt—I don't know—nervous and scared and excited all at once."

 

 

              He thought about that for a few minutes, and silence filled the cab of the truck. Then he said, "I guess I can understand being nervous and excited, but why scared?"

 

 

             Now it was Pam's turn to be silent, and she flushed a little when she finally said, "Because you're not like the rest of us."

 

 

           That grim look settled around Viktor' mouth.

 

 

             "Yeah, I know. I'm a 'commie'."

 

 

              "It isn't that!" She snapped, "It's—you're older than the rest of us, somehow. I know we're the same age, but inside you're all grown up. We're ordinary people. We'll stay right here and ranch the way our folks have. We'll marry people from the same background and stay in the county, or move to another county just like it, and have kids and be content. But you're not like that. You're going to the Academy, and you won't be back, at least not to stay. You may come back for a visit, but that's all it'll be."

 

 

             It surprised him that she had it so neatly pegged. He did feel old inside and always had, especially in comparison to other kids his age. And he knew he wouldn't be back here to ranch. He belonged in the sky doing Mach 2, marking his place in the universe with a vapor trail.

 

 

           They were quiet the rest of the way to the dance. When Viktor parked his truck with the collection of other trucks and a few cars, he braced himself for whatever could happen.

 

 

               He was prepared for almost anything, but not for what actually took place. When he and Pam walked into the rundown old building used for the dances, for a moment there was a certain stillness, a strange silence; then in the next heartbeat the noise picked back up and everyone returned to his own conversation. Pam put her hand in his and squeezed it.

 

 

               A few minutes later the live band started up, and couples drifted onto the sawdust-covered planks of the dance floor. Pam led him to the middle of the floor and smiled at him. He smiled back, wryly admitting and admiring her courage. Then he took her in his arms to enter the slow rhythm of the dance.

 

 

                 They didn't talk. After waiting for so long just to touch her, he was content to hold her and move with her. He could smell her perfume, feel the softness of her hair, the resilient mounds of her breasts, the movement of her legs against his. As young people have done from the beginning of time, they swayed together in their own private world, reality suspended. Reality intruded, however, when he heard an angry mutter of "commie bastard" and automatically stiffened as he looked around for the speaker.

 

                 Pam said, "Please." And drew him back into the dance.

 

               When the song ended, a boy stood on his chair and yelled.

 

 

               "Hey, Viktor! Pam! Over here!"

 

 

             They looked in the direction of the yell, and Viktor couldn't help grinning. Every student in the three classes Alfred taught was grouped at the table, with two empty chairs waiting for him and Pam. They were waving and calling.

 

 

             The kids saved the evening. They enveloped him and Pam in a circle of laughter and dancing. Viktor danced with every girl in the group; the boys talked horses, cattle, ranching and redoing, and between them made certain none of the girls had a chance to sit down much. The kids also talked to the other people at the dance, and soon everyone knew that the Russian was going to the Air Force Academy. Ranchers are generally hard-working, conservative and firmly patriotic, and before too long, anyone who had a hard word to say about the half-breed found himself hushed and told to mind his manners.

 

 

          Viktor and Pam left before the dance was over because he didn't want to keep her out too late. As they walked to his truck, he shook his head.

 

 

          "I never would have believed it..." He said softly.

 

 

          "Did you know they would all be here?"

 

           Pam denied it.

 

 

          "But they knew I'd asked you. I guess the whole town knew I'd asked you. It was fun, wasn't it?"

 

 

          "It was fun…" He agreed, "But it could have gotten rough. You know that, don't you? If it hadn't been for the guys—"

 

 

         "And girls!" She interrupted.

 

          "Them, too. If it hadn't been for them, I'd have been thrown out."

 

 

           "It didn't happen. And next time it will be even better."

 

 

             "Is there going to be a next time?"

 

 

            She looked suddenly unsure of herself.

 

 

            "You—you can still come to the dances, even if you don't want to come with me."

 

 

             Viktor laughed as he opened the truck door. He turned and put his hands on her waist, then lifted her onto the seat.

 

 

              "I like being with you."

 

 

              About halfway back to Calais, Pam put her hand on his arm.

 

 

              "Viktor?"

 

 

               "Yeah?"

 

 

                "Do you want to—uh, that is, do you know any place to stop?" She faltered on the words.

 

                  He knew he should resist the temptation, but he couldn't. He turned off on the next side road they came to, then left the road to bounce across a meadow for about a mile before he parked beneath a stand of trees.

 

 

                    The mild May night wrapped around them. The moonlight couldn't penetrate the shelter of the trees, and the dark cab of the truck was a warm, safe cave. Pam was a pale, indistinct figure as he reached for her.

 

 

                       She was pliant and eager, yielding to his hands, pressing against him to take more of his kisses. Her firm young body made him feel as if he would explode. Barely aware of what he was doing, Viktor shifted and twisted until they were lying on the seat with Pam half beneath him. Soon her breasts were bare, and he heard her strangled intake of breath as he took a nipple into his mouth. Then her nails were digging into his shoulders, and her hips arched. It was quickly getting out of control. Clothing was opened and pushed aside. Bare skin touched bare skin. Somehow, Pam's jeans were off.

 

                   But when he slid his hands inside her panties, she whispered, "I've never done this before. Will it hurt?"

 

 

                 Viktor groaned aloud but forced himself to stillness. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed, but he stopped his hands. His body throbbed painfully, and he savagely controlled it. After a long minute, he sat up and pulled Pam to a sitting position astride his lap.

 

 

               "Viktor?"

 

 

              He leaned his forehead against hers.

 

 

                "We can't do it." He murmured regretfully.

 

 

                  "But why?" She moved against him, her body still empty and aching with a need she didn't understand.

 

 

                 "Because it would be your first time."

 

 

                   "But I want you!"

 

 

             "I want you, too." He managed a wry grin.

 

 

          "I guess it's pretty obvious. But your first time—baby, it should be with someone you love. And you don't love me."

 

 

        "I could..." She whispered, "Oh, Viktor, I truly could."

 

 

         He was so frustrated that he could barely control his voice enough to speak, but he managed.

 

 

         "I hope you don't. I'm leaving. I have a chance waiting for me that I'd die before I'd give up."

 

 

             "And no girl is going to change your mind?"

 

 

            Viktor knew the desire inside him, and he knew Pam wouldn't like it, but he had to be honest with her.

 

 

              "No girl could change my mind. I want to go to the Academy so much that nothing can keep me here."

 

 

              She caught his hands and shyly brought them up to her breasts.

 

 

           "We could still, you know, do it. No one would know."

 

 

              "You'd know. And when you fall in love with some guy, you'd regret that your first time wasn't with him. God, Pam, don't make this so hard for me! Slap my face or something."

 

 

              The way her firm young breasts filled his hands made him wonder if he wasn't crazy for passing this up. She leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt the way her body shook as she began to cry, and he folded his arms around her.

 

 

            "You've always been special to me." She said in a stifled tone, "Do you have to be so darn conscientious?"

 

 

             "Do you want to take a chance on getting pregnant at sixteen?"

 

 

           That stopped her tears. She sat up.

 

 

          "Oh. I thought you'd have a—don't all boys carry them?"

 

 

             "I guess not. And it wouldn't matter if I did have one. I don't want to get involved—not this kind of involved—with you or anyone else, because no matter what, I'm going to the Academy. Besides, you're too young."

 

             She couldn't stop the giggle that burst out. "I'm as old as you are."

 

 

            "Then we're too young."

 

 

              "You're not." She sobered and cupped his face in her hands.

 

 

             "You're not young at all, and I guess that's why you stopped. Every other boy I know would have had his jeans off so fast he'd have fabric burns on his legs. But let's make a bargain, okay?"

 

 

           "What kind of bargain?"

 

 

           "We'll still be friends, won't we?"

 

 

             "You know it."

 

 

              "Then we'll go around together and keep things light. No more messing around like this, because it hurts too much when you stop. You go away to Colorado as you've planned, and I'll take things as they come. I may get married. But if I don't, you come on back here one summer and we'll both be old enough then. Will you be my first lover?"

 

 

          "It won't keep me in Calais." He said steadily.

 

 

           "I don't expect it to. But is it a bargain?"

 

 

          He accepted that the years could make a difference, and he knew she'd most likely be married. If not—maybe.

 

 

          "If you still want to then, yeah, it's a bargain."

 

 

            She held out her hand, and they solemnly shook to seal the deal. Then she kissed him and began putting on her clothes.

 

 

             Alfred was waiting up for him when he got home, an anxious look in his eyes. He got to his feet and tightened the belt of his robe.

 

           "Are you okay?" He asked, "Did anything happen?"

 

           "I'm fine. Everything went okay." Then Viktor saw that the anxious look was really fear. Alfred touched his arm.

 

          "You didn't see anyone who—" Alfred stopped, then started again, "No one shot at your truck, or tried to run you off the road?"

 

           "No, it was quiet."

 

            They looked at each other for a moment, and Viktor realized that Alfred had feared the same thing that had occurred to him. More than that, he knew Viktor had decided to take the chance in an effort to draw the rapist out.

           He cleared his throat.

 

             "Is Dad in bed?"

 

           "No," Ivan said quietly from the doorway. He wore only a pair of jeans. His violet eyes were steady, "I wanted to make certain you were okay. This was like watching Daniel walk into the lion's den."

 

         "Well, Daniel made it out okay, didn't he? So, did I. It was even fun. The whole class was there."

 

           Alfred smiled, the dread lifting from his mind. He knew now what had happened. Knowing that the situation could get ugly if Viktor had gone to the dance without backup, the kids had taken it on themselves to make him a part of their group and let everyone at the dance know he was accepted. Ivan held out his hand, and Alfred went to him. He could sleep now. They were safe for another night, these two men whom he loved.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really don't want to write these essays... but hope ya'll enjoy! comment pls!


	11. Replacing Memories

      The school was out. Alfred was intensely proud of his students. The seniors had all graduated, and all of the undergraduates had passed. All of them intended to finish high school, and a couple of them wanted to go to college. It was a record to thrill any teacher's heart.

 

 

         Viktor didn't get a respite. Alfred decided he needed more advanced classes in math than he was qualified to teach and began a search for a teacher who was qualified. He found one in a town seventy miles distant, and three times a week Viktor made the trip for a two-hour accelerated course. Alfred continued to teach him at night.

 

 

            The days passed in a haze of happiness for Alfred. He seldom left the mountain, seldom saw anyone except Ivan and Viktor. Even when they were both gone, he felt safe. It had been only a little over two weeks since the attack, but it seemed as if it had happened a long time ago. Whenever a sliver of memory surfaced to unsettle his emotions, he scolded himself for letting it bother him. Nothing had happened, except he had been terrified. If anyone needed care and consideration, it was Cathy Teele. So, Alfred pushed the memories away and concentrated on the present. The present, inevitably, was Ivan.

 

 

            He dominated Alfred's life, waking and sleeping. He began teaching him how to ride and how to help him with the horses, and he suspected he used the same method with him that he used with the young colts and fillies that were brought to him. He was firm and demanding, but utterly clear in his instructions and what he wanted out of both him and the horses. When they obeyed, he rewarded them with approval and affection. In fact, Alfred mused, he was easier on the horses than he was on him! When they disobeyed, he was unfailingly patient. When he didn't do something exactly as he'd told him, he let him know about it in unmistakable terms.

 

 

              But Ivan was always affectionate. Actually, he decided, "lusty" was a better description. He made love to him every night, sometimes twice. He made love to him in the empty stall where Viktor had interrupted them. He made love to him in the shower. He knew he wasn't even close to sexy, but Ivan seemed enthralled with his body. When they lay in bed at night he would turn on the lamp and lean on his elbow, watching as he stroked his hand over Alfred from shoulders to knees, seemingly fascinated by the difference between his pale, delicate skin and his own tanned, powerful, work-callused hand.

 

                Montana weather in the summer was generally cool and dry, at least compared to California, but the summer vacation from school had scarcely begun when a heat wave sent the temperatures into the nineties, even edging into the low hundreds by late afternoon. For the first time in his life, Alfred wished he had some shorts to wear, but Grandma had never allowed them. He did find, however, that his plain cotton pants were cooler than the new jeans he was so proud of, not that Grandma would have approved of Alfred's attire even then, for she strongly believed that any man who left the house in less than a full suit and tie, was an out-and-out hussy. These cotton pants hugged his waist nicely and brought out his bottom more.

 

              One morning just after Viktor had left to drive to his class, Alfred walked out to the barn and reflected on his state of hussiness. All in all, he was satisfied with it. Being a hussy had its advantages.

 

            He could hear some horses snorting and stomping around in the small corral behind the barn, though Ivan usually used the larger one adjacent to the stables for training. The sound of activity, however, told him where he could find him, and that was all he wanted to know.

 

 

               But when he rounded the corner of the barn, he stopped in his tracks. Ivan's big bay stallion was mounting the mare he had been riding during his lessons. The mare's front hooves were hobbled, and protective boots covered her rear hooves. The stallion was snorting and grunting, and the mare squealed as he entered her. Ivan moved to her head to steady her, and then she stood quietly.

 

 

              "There, малыш..." Ivan crooned, "You can handle this big old guy, can't you?"

 

 

                The mare shivered under the impact of the stallion's thrusts, but she stood still for the service and it was over in only a couple of minutes. The stallion snorted and dropped off her, his head down low as he snuffled and blew. Ivan continued talking in that low, soothing voice to the mare as he bent down to remove the hobble. As he started to remove the boots, Alfred stepped forward and caught his attention.

 

 

                 "You—you tied her!" Alfred said accusingly. Ivan grinned as he finished unbuckling the protective boots. Mr. Alfred Jones stood before him in full form, his back ramrod-straight, chin lifted.

 

             "I didn't tie her..." He said with amused patience, "I hobbled her."

 

 

              "So, she couldn't get away from him!"

 

 

               "She didn't want to get away from him."

 

 

               "How do you know?"

 

 

              "Because she would have kicked him if she hadn't been ready for him to cover her." He explained as he led the mare back into the barn. Alfred followed his face still filled with indignation.

 

 

              "A lot of good it would have done if she'd kicked him—you put those boots on her so she wouldn't hurt him!"

 

 

                "Well, I didn't want my stallion damaged. On the other hand, if she had resisted service, I would have gotten her out of there. When a mare resists, it means I've misjudged the time, or something is wrong with her. But she took him nicely, didn't you girl?" He finished, patting the mare's neck.

 

 

                Alfred watched, fidgeting, as Ivan washed the mare. He still didn't like the idea of the mare being unable to run away from the stallion, even though this particular mare was now standing as placidly as if nothing had happened a few minutes ago. It disturbed him on a deep emotional level that didn't respond to logic, and he felt uneasy.

 

 

              Ivan led the mare to her stall, fed her and gave her fresh water. Then he squatted in front of the faucet to wash his hands and arms. When he looked up, Alfred was still standing there, a troubled, almost frightened look in his eyes. He straightened.

 

 

                "What's wrong?"

 

 

                   Desperately he tried to shrug his uneasiness aside, but it didn't work. It was plain in his face and voice.

 

 

                    "It looked—it looked..." His voice trailed off, but suddenly Ivan understood. He moved slowly toward Alfred and wasn't surprised when he backed up a step.

 

 

                "Horses aren't people." Ivan said gently, "They're big, and they snort and squeal. It looks rough, but that's just how horses mate. It would be even tougher if they were allowed to run free because they'd kick and bite."

 

 

               Alfred looked at the mare. "I know. It's just—" He stopped because he really couldn't say what was bothering him. Ivan reached him and put his hands on his waist, holding him lightly so he wouldn't be alarmed and wouldn't know that he couldn't break free unless he let him.

 

 

             "It's just that the roughness reminded you of being attacked?" Ivan finished for him. Alfred gave him a quick, disturbed look, then just as quickly looked away.

 

 

                "I know the memory is still there, baby." He slowly tightened his hands, bringing Alfred close against him and just holding him. After a moment Alfred began to relax, and his silky head rested against Ivan's broad chest. Only then did he put his arms around him, because he didn't want him to feel restrained.

 

 

               "I want to kiss you." Ivan murmured. Alfred lifted his head and smiled at him.

 

 

                "That's why I came out here: to tempt you into a kiss. I've become a shameless hussy. Grandma would have disowned me."

 

 

             "Your Grandma sounds like a pain in the—"

 

 

            "She was wonderful." Alfred said firmly, "It's just that she was very old-fashioned and had strict notions of what was proper and what wasn't. For instance, only shameless hussies would wear pants without a jacket and tie."

 

 

             "Then let's hear it for shameless hussies."

 

 

                  Ivan bent his head and kissed him, and felt the familiar hot excitement begin building in his body. Ruthlessly he controlled it because control was critical right now. He had to show Alfred something, and he couldn't do it if his libido overcame his common sense. He had to do something to banish that ever-present fear from the back of his mind.

 

 

                  Ivan raised his head and hugged him for a minute before letting his arms drop. Instead, he took his hands and held them, and the expression on his face made the smile leave Alfred's eyes. He said slowly.

 

 

              "Are you willing to try something that might get you over being frightened?"

 

 

          Alfred looked cautious.

 

 

             "Such as?"

 

 

            "We could reenact parts of the attack."

 

 

             Alfred stared at him. He was curious, but also wary. Part of him didn't want to do anything that would remind him of that day, but on the other hand, he didn't like being afraid.

 

 

           "Which parts?"

 

 

           "I could chase you."

 

 

            "He didn't chase me. He grabbed me from behind."

 

 

            "So, will I, when I catch you."

 

 

             Alfred considered it.

 

 

           "It won't work. I'll know it's you."

 

 

           "We could try."

 

 

              He stared at Ivan for a long time, then stiffened as a thought came to him.

 

 

              "He threw me face down on the ground." Alfred whispered, "He was on top of me, rubbing himself against me."

 

 

                Ivan's face was strained.

 

 

              "Do you want me to do that, too?"

 

 

                  Alfred shuddered.

 

 

                 "Want you to? No. But I think you're going to have to. I don't want to be afraid any longer. Make love to me like that—please."

 

 

                 "What if you get really scared?"

 

 

                "Don't—", He swallowed, "Don't stop."

 

 

                Ivan looked at him for a long minute, as if measuring his resolve; then his mouth began to quirk up on one side.

 

 

                   "All right. Run."

 

 

                 He didn't. He stared at him.

 

 

                  "What?"

  

 

               "Run. I can't chase you if you don't run."

 

 

                 All of a sudden Alfred felt silly at the thought of running about the yard like a child.

 

 

            "Just like that?"

 

 

                "Yeah, just like that. Think of it this way: when I catch you, I'm going to pull your clothes off and make love to you, so why are you waiting?" Ivan removed his hat to hook it on a post. Alfred took a step backward, then, despite his dignity, whirled and ran. He heard the thudding of Ivan's boots as he came after him, and laughed with excitement despite himself. He knew he didn't have a prayer of reaching the house; Ivan's legs were longer than his. Instead, he relied on agility and dodged around Ivan's truck, then a tree.

 

 

              "I'm going to get you," Ivan growled, his voice right behind him, and his hand closed briefly on his shoulder before he sprinted away from him.

 

 

                Alfred sought refuge behind his truck again, with him on the other side. They feinted, but neither gained an advantage. Panting, his face alight with both excitement and triumph, Alfred taunted him.

 

 

               "Can't catch me, can't catch me."

 

 

                  A slow, unholy smile touched Ivan's mouth as he looked at him. Alfred was almost glowing with his success, his silky blonde hair tumbling around his face, and he wanted him so much it hurt. Ivan wanted to take him in his arms and make love to him, and he swore to himself because he couldn't, not right now. First, he had to play this through, and, despite his brave words, Ivan hoped he could bear it.

 

 

                 They had been staring at each other, and suddenly it struck Alfred how savage he looked. Ivan was aroused. He knew that look on his face as well as he knew his own, and his breath caught. He wasn't playing; he was deadly earnest. For the first time, fear began to creep in on him. He tried to tamp it down because he knew Ivan would never hurt him. It was just—oh, damn, something about it did remind him of the attack, no matter how he tried to push the thought away. The playfulness drained out of him, and an unreasonable panic took its place.

 

 

              "Ivan? Let's stop now."

 

 

               Ivan’s chest rose and fell with his breathing, and a bleak look entered his eyes, but his voice was guttural.

 

 

               "No. I'm going to catch you."

 

 

             Alfred ran blindly, leaving the dubious safety of the truck. Ivan's running steps behind him sounded like thunder, obscuring every other sound, even that of his rasping breath. It was like being in that alley again, even though a part of him clung to the knowledge that this was Ivan, and he wanted him to do this. He hadn't had a chance to run from his attacker, but he had been behind him; he had heard his breathing just as he now heard Ivan's. He screamed, a high, terrifying sound, just before Ivan caught him and bore him down, on his stomach, to the ground, his heavyweight coming down on top of him. Ivan supported himself on his arms to keep from crushing him and nuzzled his ear.

 

 

               "Ha, I caught you." Ivan forced himself to say the words lightly, but his chest was tight with pain at what Alfred was going through. He could feel the terror that held him in its grip, and he began trying to loosen its bonds, speaking softly to him, reminding him of the heated, sensuous pleasures they had shared. Tears stung Ivan's eyes at the sounds Alfred made, those of a trapped and terrified animal. God, he didn't know if he could do it. The lust had died in him at the first scream.

 

 

          At first, Alfred struggled like a wild thing, kicking and bucking, trying to free his arms, but Ivan held them clamped down. He was maddened with fear, so much so that despite the difference in their sizes and strength, he might have hurt Ivan if not for his training. As it was, all he could do was hold Alfred and try to break through the black mist of fear that enveloped him.

 

 

             "Calm down, малыш, calm down. You know I won't hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you. You know who I am." Ivan repeated it over and over until exhaustion claimed Alfred, and his struggles became weak and aimless. Only then could he begin to listen; only then could Ivan's crooning words penetrate the barrier of fear. Suddenly he collapsed on the ground with his face buried in the hot, sweet grass and began to cry.

 

 

                 Ivan lay on top of him with his arms still locked securely around him and soothed him while he cried. He petted him and kissed his hair, his shoulder, his delicate nape, until at least he lay limply on the grass, both tears and energy exhausted. The endless caresses affected Ivan, too, now that Alfred was calmer; he felt a return of the desire that was never far away from him since he'd met him.

 

 

              Ivan nuzzled his neck again, "Are you still frightened?" He murmured.

 

                Braised, swollen eyelids were closed over Alfred's eyes.

 

 

                "No.." He whispered, "I'm sorry I keep putting you through this. I love you."

 

                "I know, малыш. Hold on to that thought. "Then he lifted himself back on his knees and pulled Alfred's pants down his pale legs. Alfred's eyes flared open when he felt him pulling them, and his underpants down, and his voice was sharp.

 

 

              "Ivan! No!"

 

 

                Ivan stripped the garments down his legs, and Alfred trembled in reaction. It was so much like before, in the alley. He was on his stomach on the ground, with a man's weight on top of him, and he couldn't bear it. He tried to scramble forward, but Ivan locked one arm around his waist and held him still, while he unfastened his jeans with the other hand. He kneed Alfred's legs farther apart and eased himself against him again.

 

 

            "This reminds you of it, doesn't it?" Ivan asked in a low, gentle voice, "Being on the ground, with me behind you. But you know I won't hurt you, that you don't have to be afraid, don't you?"

 

 

              "I don't care. I don't like this! Let me up, I want up!"

 

 

               "I know, baby. Come on now, relax. Think of how many times I've made love to you and how much you've enjoyed it. Trust me."

 

 

                The smell of the hot earth was in Alfred's nostrils.

 

 

                "I don't want you to make love to me now." He managed to say, albeit raggedly, "Not like this."

 

 

                  "Then I won't. Don't be afraid, baby. I won't go any further unless you want me to. Just relax, and let's feel each other. I don't want you to be afraid when I come up behind you. I admit, your pretty little rear end turns me on. I like to look at it and touch it, and when you cuddle it against me in bed it drives me crazy. I guess you've noticed, though, haven't you?"

 

 

               Dazedly, Alfred tried to gather his scattered senses. Ivan had never hurt him before, and now that the haze of fear was fading, he knew he never would. This was Ivan, the man he loved, not his attacker. He was in his strong arms, where he was safe.

 

               Alfred relaxed, his tired muscles going limp. Yes, Ivan was definitely aroused. He could feel him, nestled between his spread legs, but true to his word he was making no move to enter him. Ivan stroked his sides and kissed his neck.

 

 

               "Are you all right now?"

 

 

              Alfred sighed, a barely audible release of breath, "Yes." He whispered.

 

 

              Ivan shifted to his knees again and sat back on his heels. Before Alfred could guess what, he was about, his steely hands lifted him up and back, so he was sitting astride his thighs, but facing away from him. Their naked loins were pressed together, but still, he didn't enter him.

 

 

                 The first twinge of excitement sang along Alfred's nerves. The moment was doubly erotic because they were out in the open, crouched on the grass with the hot, bright sun blazing down on them. If anyone happened to drive up, they would be caught. The sudden sense of danger sharply heightened his arousal. Ivan held him to him with one hand on his stomach, and the other hand slid down between his legs, wrapping loosely around his hardening cock. The intimate contact brought a sharp little cry to his lips.

 

          "Do you like that?” Ivan murmured against his ear and gently nipped the lobe.

 

            Alfred made some incoherent answer. Ivan's rough fingertips were rasping over his most sensitive flesh, creating and building such pleasure that he could barely speak. Ivan knew exactly how to touch him, how to build him to readiness and take him to ecstasy. Mindlessly Alfred arched back against him; the movement brought Ivan's manhood more solidly against him, and he groaned aloud.

 

 

              "Ivan—please!" He groaned, too, from between clenched teeth.

 

 

            "I'll please you any way you want, baby. Just tell me how."

 

 

            Alfred could barely speak for the powerful coil of sensation tightening inside him.

 

 

              "I want you."

 

 

               "Now?"

 

 

                  "Yes."

 

 

               "Like this?" Ivan moved against him and this time had to choke back a cry.

  

              "Yes!"

              Ivan eased him forward until he was on his hands and knees, and covered him. His entry was slow and gentle, and fever enveloped Alfred's body. Eagerly he met the impact of Ivan's thrusts, his body on fire, all thoughts suspended before such all-consuming need. This wasn't a nightmare; this was another part of the sensual delights he'd been teaching him. He writhed against Ivan and felt the coil tighten unbearably. Then it sprang free, and he convulsed in his arms, spraying the grass beneath him. Ivan clamped his hands-on Alfred's slim hips and loosed his own responses, driving into him hard and fast until his pulsing release freed him.

 

 

             They lay together on the grass for a long time, half-dozing, too exhausted to move. Only when Alfred felt his legs begin to tingle from too much sun did he find the strength to move. Ivan murmured a protest and slid his hand up Alfred's thigh.

 

 

              Alfred opened his eyes. The sky was bright blue, cloudless, and the sweet scent of fresh grass filled his lungs, radiated through his body. The earth was hot beneath him, the man he loved dozed beside him, and every inch of him still held the remnants of sensation from their lovemaking. The memory of it, so fresh and powerful, began to warm his body to desire again, and suddenly he realized that Ivan's plan had worked. He had recreated the scenario that had so terrified him but substituted himself for the attacker. Instead of fear, pain, and humiliation, he had given him the desire and, ultimately, an ecstasy so strong it had taken him out of himself. He had replaced a terrible memory with a wonderful one.

 

 

              Ivan's hand was lying low on Alfred's abdomen now, and the simple intimacy of his touch stunned him. He knew that he couldn't be carrying his child. Impossible. But he kind of wished it wasn't. It was what he wanted, even if their relationship didn't last, he would want his baby, a child with his strength and fire. If it could be a duplicate of him, nothing would make him happier. Alfred stirred, and the pressure of Ivan's hand on his abdomen increased.

 

 

               "The sun is too hot." Alfred murmured. "I'm getting burned."

 

 

               Ivan groaned, but fastened his jeans and sat up. Then he picked up Alfred's pants and underpants, tucked them in his pocket and lifted him in his arms in the same motion he used to get to his feet.

 

 

           "I can walk," Alfred informed him, though he wound his arms around his neck.

 

 

              "I know." Ivan grinned down at him, "It's just that it's more romantic to carry you into the house to make love."

 

 

               "But we just made love."

 

 

               There was a fire in his black eyes.

 

 

                   "So?"

 

* * *

 

 

                 Ivan was just about to enter the feed store when a tingle touched the back of his neck like a cool wind. He didn't stop, which would have signaled an alarm to anyone watching, but, using his peripheral vision, he took a quick look around. The sense of danger was like a touch. Someone was watching him. His sixth sense was highly developed from hard training and years of application, and further enhanced by the strong mysticism of his heritage.

 

 

                It wasn't just that he was being watched; he could feel the hatred directed toward him. He strode into the feed store and immediately stepped to the side, flattening himself against the wall as he looked out the door. Conversation in the store halted as if the words had hit a stone wall, but he ignored the thick silence. Adrenaline pumped through his body; he didn't notice that his gloved hand automatically slid over his chest to touch the knife that had been securely attached to the webbing he'd worn sixteen years before, in a steamy, hauntingly beautiful little country that reeked of blood and death. Only when his hand encountered nothing but his shirt did he realize that old habits had come to the fore.

 

 

             Suddenly he realized that it was the man he'd been hunting, standing somewhere out there and staring at him with hatred, and rage surged through him. He didn't need a knife. Without a word, he removed his hat and boots, the hat because it increased his silhouette, the boots because they were too noisy. In his sock feet, he ran lightly past the stunned and silent little knot of men who had been standing around chewing the fat. Only one voiced a hesitant.

 

 

            "What's going on?"

 

 

               Ivan didn't take time to answer but slipped out the back door of the feed store. His movements were silent, deliberate, as he used every available bit of cover while moving from building to building, working his way around so he would come out behind where he had estimated the man to be. It was hard to pinpoint his position, but Ivan had automatically picked out the best locations for concealment. If he kept looking long enough, he'd find another of the tracks he'd been searching for; the guy would get careless, and Ivan would get him.

 

 

            He slid around the back of the drugstore, feeling the heat of the sun-warmed boards against his back. He was more cautious than before, not wanting the wood to rasp against his shirt. It was gravelly here, too, and he placed his feet with care to keep the little rocks from making a telltale grinding.

 

 

               He heard the heavy, thudding sound of someone running as if he had bolted in panic. Ivan ran around the front of the building and knelt briefly to inspect a faint print in the dust, only a part of a print, but his blood surged. It was the same print, same shoe, same toeing-in stride. He sprinted like a big timber wolf, no longer caring about noise, racing up the street, looking left and right for anyone in the street.

 

 

             Nothing. No one. The street was empty. He stopped to listen. He heard birds, the rustle of a fitful breeze in the trees, the far-off sound of an engine climbing the slight rise on the north side of the town. Nothing else. No fast breathing, no running footsteps.

 

 

                 Ivan swore to himself. The guy was worse than an amateur, he was clumsy and made stupid moves, as well as being out of shape. If he'd been anywhere close by, Ivan would have been able to hear his labored breathing. Damn it, somehow his quarry had slipped away.

 

 

                Ivan looked at the quiet houses nestled under the trees. Calais didn’t have residential and commercial zoning; it was too small. The result was that the houses and few businesses were mixed together without order. The man could have gone into any of the houses; the way he'd disappeared so suddenly left no other possibility. It verified Ivan's conviction that the rapist lived in Ruth; after all, both attacks had happened right in town.

 

 

                    He noted who lived in the houses on the street and tried to think of who inside them matched Alfred's description of a heavily freckled man. No one came to mind. But someone would. By God, Ivan vowed, someone would. He was slowly eliminating men from his mental list. Eventually, there would be only one left.

 

 

                 From inside a house, a curtain moved fractionally. The sound of his own raspy breathing as he sucked air into his laboring lungs filled the man's ears. Through the tiny crack he'd made, he could see the Indian still standing in the street, staring at first one house, then another. Murderous black eyes moved across the window where the man stood, and he automatically stepped back out of sight.

 

 

             His own fear sickened and enraged him. He didn't want to be afraid of the Commie, but he was.

 

 

             "Damn filthy Commie!" He whispered the words, then echoed them in his head. He liked doing that, saying things out loud the first time, then saying them to himself for his private understanding and enjoyment.

 

 

              The Russian was a murderer. They said he knew more ways of killing people than normal folks could even imagine. The man believed it because he knew firsthand how Russians could kill.

 

 

                  He'd like to kill the Commie, and that boy of his with the strange, pale eyes that looked through him. But he was afraid, because he didn't know how to kill, and he knew he'd wind up getting killed himself. He was too afraid of getting that close to the Russian to even try it.

 

 

                  He'd thought about it, but he couldn't come up with a plan. He'd like to shoot the Russian because he wouldn't have to get close to do that, but he didn't have a gun, and he didn't want to draw attention to himself by buying one. But he liked what he'd done to get back at the Russian. It gave him savage satisfaction to know he was punishing the Commie by hurting those stupid people who had taken up for him. Why couldn't they see him for the filthy, murdering trash he was? That stupid Cathy had said the Russian was good-looking! She'd even said she'd go out with the boy, and he knew that meant she'd let the boy touch her, and kiss her. She'd been willing to let the filthy Braginsky’s kiss her, but she'd fought and screamed and gagged when he'd touched her.

 

 

              It didn't make sense, but, he didn't care. He'd wanted to punish her and punish the Russian for—for being there, for letting stupid Cathy look at him and think he was good-looking.

 

 

               And the schoolteacher. He hated him almost as much as he hated the Braginsky’s, maybe more. He was so goody-goody, making people think the boy was something special, trying to talk people around so they'd be friendly to the Commies. Preaching in the general store!

 

 

              He'd wanted to spit on Alfred. He'd wanted to hurt him, bad. He'd been so excited he almost hadn't been able to stand it when he'd dragged him down that alley and felt him squirming beneath him. If that stupid deputy hadn't shown up, he'd have done to him what he'd done to Cathy, and he knew he'd have liked it more. He'd wanted to hit the teacher with his fists while he did it to him. That would have shown him. He would never have stuck up for the half-breeds again.

 

 

            He still wanted to get Alfred, to teach him a lesson, but school was out now, and he'd heard people say that the deputy had made his move to some safe place, and no one knew where he was. He didn't want to wait until school started again, but he thought he might have to.

 

 

               And that stupid Pam Hearst. She needed a lesson, too. He'd heard that she had gone to a dance with the half-breed boy. He knew what that meant. He'd had his hands on her, and she'd probably let him kiss her and maybe do a lot more because everyone knew what the Braginsky’s were like. As far as he was concerned, that made Pam a slut. She deserved to be taught a lesson just like Cathy, and just like the lesson the schoolteacher still had coming.

 

 

              He peeked outside again. The Russian was gone. He immediately felt safe, and he began to plan.

 

* * *

 

 

             When Ivan walked back into the feed store, the same group of men was still there.

 

 

           "We don't much like you tracking folks around like we're criminals." One man snapped.

 

                Ivan grunted and sat down to pull on his boots. He didn't care if they liked it or not.

 

 

                "Did you hear what I said?"

 

 

                  Ivan looked up.

 

 

                  "I heard."

 

 

                  "And?"

 

 

                   "And nothing."

 

 

                 "Now look here, damn it!"

 

 

                    "I'm looking."

 

 

                The men fidgeted under his cold black stare. Another spoke up.

 

 

                   "You're making the women nervous."

 

 

                  "They should be nervous. It might keep them on guard, keep them from getting raped."

 

 

               "It was some drifter trash who blew in and blew out! Likely the sheriff won't ever find who did it."

 

 

                 "It's trash, all right, but he's still here. I just found his track."

 

 

                  The men fell silent and looked at each other. Stu Kilgore, the foreman on Eli Baugh's spread, cleared his throat.

 

 

                  "We're supposed to believe you can tell it was made by the same man?"

 

 

             "I can tell." Ivan gave them a smile that was closer to a snarl, "Uncle Sam made sure I got the best training available. It's the same man. He lives here. He slipped into one of the houses."

 

 

             "That's hard to believe. We've lived here all our lives. The only stranger around is the schoolteacher. Why would someone just up and start attacking people?"

 

 

         "Someone did. That's all I care about, that and catching him." He left the men murmuring among themselves while he loaded his feed.

 

* * *

 

             Pam was bored. Since the two attacks, she hadn't even stepped outside the house by herself; she'd been pretty scared at first, but the days had passed without any more attacks, and the shock had worn off. Folks were beginning to venture out again, even by themselves.

 

 

             She was going to another dance with Viktor, and she wanted a new dress. She knew he was going away, knew she couldn't hold him, but there was still something about him that made her heart race. She refused to let herself love him, even though she knew any other boyfriend would have a hard time replacing Viktor. Hard, but not impossible. She wasn't going to mope after he'd left; she'd get on with her life—but right now he was still here, and she savored every moment with him.

 

 

                She really wanted a new dress, but she'd promised Viktor she wouldn't go anywhere alone, and she didn't intend to break her promise. When her mother returned from shopping with a neighbor, she'd ask her about going with her to get a new dress. Not in Calais, of course; she wanted to go to a real town, with a real dress shop.

 

 

               Finally, she picked up a book and walked out onto the back porch, away from the sun. There were neighbors on both sides, and she felt safe. She read for a while, then became sleepy and lay down on the porch swing, arranging her long legs over the back of the swing. She dozed immediately.

 

 

             The abrupt jolting of the swing awakened her sometime later. She opened her eyes and stared at a ski mask, with narrow, hate-filled green eyes glittering through the slits. He was already on her when she screamed.

 

 

                He hit her with his fist, but she jerked her head back so that the blow landed on her shoulder. She screamed again and tried to kick him, and the unsteady swing toppled them to the porch. She kicked again, catching him in the stomach, and he grunted, sounding oddly surprised.

 

 

                She couldn't stop screaming, even as she scrabbled away from him. She was more terrified than she'd ever been before in her life, but also oddly detached, watching the scene from some safe distance. The wooden slats of the porch scraped her hands and arms, but she kept moving backward. He suddenly sprang, and she kicked at him again, but he caught her ankle. She didn't stop. She just kicked, using both legs, trying to catch him in the head or the groin, and she screamed.

 

 

                 Someone next door yelled. The man jerked his head up and dropped her ankle. Blood had seeped through the multicolored ski mask; she'd managed to kick him in the mouth. He said.

 

 

                "Russian's dirty whore." In a hate-thickened voice, and jumped from the porch, already running.

 

 

                Pam lay on the porch, sobbing in dry, painful gasps. The neighbor yelled again, and somehow, she garnered enough strength to scream.

 

 

                 "Help me!" Before the terror made her curl into a ball and whimper like a child.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived y'all! hope you like this chapter! only a few left!


	12. I Love You

             Ivan wasn't surprised when the deputy's car pulled up and Clay got out. He'd had a tight feeling in his gut since he'd found that footprint in town. Clay's tired face told the story. Alfred saw who their visitor was and automatically got a cup for coffee; Clay always wanted coffee. He took off his hat and sat down, heaving a sigh as he did so.

                                                        

 

            "Who was it this time?" Ivan asked, his deep voice so rough it was almost a growl.

 

 

              "Pam Hearst."

 

 

             Viktor' head jerked up, and all the color washed out of his face. He was on his feet before Clay's next words came.

 

 

              "She fought him off. She isn't hurt, but she's scared. He jumped her on the Hearst’s' back porch, for God's sake. Mrs. Winston heard her screaming, and the guy ran. Pam said she kicked him in the mouth. She saw blood on the ski mask he was wearing."

 

 

             "He lives in town," Ivan said.

 

 

               "I found another print, but it's hard to track in town, with people walking around destroying what few prints there are. I think he ducked into one of the houses along Bay Road, but he might not live there."

 

 

              "Bay Road." Clay frowned as he mentally reviewed the people living on Bay Road; most of the townspeople lived along it, in close little clusters. There was also another cluster of houses on Broad Street, where the Hearsts lived.

 

 

             "We might have him this time. Any man who has a swollen lip will have to have an airtight alibi."

 

 

             "If it just split his lip, you won't be able to tell. The swelling will be minimal. She would have to have really done some damage for it to be visible more than a day or so."

 

 

              Ivan had had more than his share of split lips, and delivered his share, too. The mouth healed swiftly. Now if Pam had knocked some teeth out, that would be a different story.

 

 

            "Any blood on the porch?"

 

 

            "No."

 

 

           "Then she didn't do any real damage." There would have been blood sprayed all over the porch if she'd kicked out his teeth.

 

 

            Clay shoved his hand through his hair. "I don't like to think of the uproar it would cause, but I'm going to talk to the sheriff about making a house-to-house search along Bay Road. Damn it, I just can't think of anyone it could be."

 

 

            Viktor abruptly left the room, and Ivan stared after his son. He knew Viktor wanted to go to Pam and knew that he wouldn't. Some of the barriers had come down, but most of them were still intact. Clay had watched Viktor leave, and he sighed again.

 

 

            "The bastard called Pam an 'Russian's dirty whore'." His gaze shifted to Alfred, who had stood silently the whole time, "You were right"

 

              Alfred didn't reply, because he'd known all along that he was right. It made him sick to hear the name Pam had been called because it so starkly revealed the hatred behind the attack.

 

              "I suppose all the tracks at Pam's house have been ruined," Ivan said it as a statement, not a question.

 

 

               "Afraid so." Clay was regretful, but practically everyone in town had been at the Hearsts' house before he'd gotten there, standing around the back porch and tramping around the area. Ivan muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath about damn idiots.

 

 

             "Do you think the sheriff will go along with a house-to-house search?"

 

 

             "Depends. You know some folks are going to kick up about it no matter what the reason. They'll take it personally. This is an election year." He said, and they took his point

 

 

               Alfred listened to them talking, but he didn't join in. Now Pam had been hurt; who was next? Would the man work up enough courage to attack Ivan or Viktor? That was his real terror because he didn't know if he could bear it. He loved them with all the fierceness of his soul. He would gladly put himself between them and danger. Which was exactly what he would have to do.

 

 

            It made Alfred sick to even think of that man's hands on him again, but he knew at that moment that he was going to give him the opportunity. Somehow, he was going to lure him out. He wouldn't allow himself the luxury of hiding out on Braginsky's Mountain any longer.

 

 

                Alfred would begin driving into town by himself. The only problem would be in getting away from Ivan; he knew Ivan would never agree if he had any idea what he was doing. Not only that, he was capable of preventing him from leaving at all, either by disabling his car or even locking him in the bedroom. Alfred didn't underestimate him.

 

 

                 Since Alfred had moved him up on the mountain with him, Ivan had been delivering and picking up horses, rather than letting the owners come up to the ranch, where they might see him. His whereabouts were a well-kept secret, known only to Ivan, Viktor, and Clay. But that meant he was left alone several times a week while Ivan and Viktor ran errands and delivered horses. Viktor also left for his math lessons, and they had to ride fences and work the small herd of cattle, just as every rancher did. He really had a lot of opportunities for slipping away, at least the first time. It would be infinitely more difficult to get away after that because Ivan would be on his guard.

 

 

                Alfred quietly excused himself and went in search of Viktor. He peeked into his bedroom, but he wasn't there, so he went out on the front porch. He was leaning against one of the posts, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets.

 

 

                "It isn't your fault."

 

 

                 Viktor didn't move. "I knew it could happen."

 

 

                  "You aren't responsible for someone else's hate."

 

 

                  "No, but I am responsible for Pam. I knew it could happen, and I should have stayed away from her."

 

 

                  Alfred made an ungentlemanly sound. "I seem to remember it was the other way around. Pam made her choice when she made that scene in her father's store."

 

                    "All she wanted was to go to a dance. She didn't ask for this."

 

 

                 "Of course not, but it still isn't your fault, any more than it would have been your fault if she'd been in a car accident. You can say you could have delayed her so she'd have been a minute later getting to that particular section of road, or hurried her up so she'd have been earlier, but that's ridiculous, and you know it."

 

 

                 Viktor couldn't prevent a faint smile at the starchiness of Alfred's tone. He should be in Congress, cracking his whip and haranguing those senators and representatives into some sort of fiscal responsibility. Instead, he'd taken on Ruth, Montana, and none of them had been the same since he'd set foot in town.

 

 

                "All right, so I'm taking too much on myself." He finally said, "But I knew it wasn't smart to go out with her in the first place. It isn't fair. I'll be leaving here when I finish school, and I won't be back. Pam should be dating someone who's going to be around when she needs him."

 

 

             "You're still taking too much on yourself. Let Pam make her own decisions about who she wants to date. Do you plan to isolate yourself from women forever?"

 

 

               "I wouldn't go that far." He drawled, and at that moment Viktor sounded so much like his father that it startled him.

 

 

                  "But I don't intend to get involved with anyone."

 

 

                  "It doesn't always work out the way you want. You were involved with Pam even before I came here." That was true, as far as it went. He sighed and leaned his head against the post.

 

 

                  "I don't love her."

 

 

                 "Of course not. I never thought you did."

 

 

                     "I like her; I care for her. But not enough to stay, not enough to give up the Academy." He looked at the Montana night, the almost painful clarity of the sky, the brightly winking stars, and thought of jockeying an F-15 over these mountains, with the dark earth below and the glittering stars above. No, he couldn't give that up.

 

 

              "Did you tell her that?"

 

 

              "Yes."

 

 

               "Then it was her decision." They stood in silence, watching the stars. A few minutes later Clay left, and neither of them thought it strange that he hadn't said goodbye. Ivan came out on the porch and automatically slid his arm around Alfred's waist, hugging him to his side even as he put his hand on his son's shoulder.

 

 

                "You okay?"

 

 

              "Okay enough, I suppose."

 

 

              But he understood now the total rage he'd seen in Ivan's eyes when Alfred had been attacked, the same rage that still burned in a rigidly controlled fire inside his father. God help the man if Ivan Braginsky ever got his hands on him.

 

 

             Ivan tightened his arm around Alfred and led him inside, knowing it was best to leave Viktor alone now. His son was tough; he'd handle it.

* * *

 

             The next morning Alfred listened as they discussed their day. There were no horses to deliver or pick up, but Viktor had a math lesson that afternoon, and they intended to use the morning inoculating cattle. He had no idea how long it would take to treat the whole herd but imagined they would both be tied up the entire morning. They would be riding a couple of the young quarter horses, to teach them how to cut cattle.

 

              Viktor had changed overnight; it was a subtle change, but one that made Alfred ache inside. In repose, his young face held a grimness that saddened him, as if the last faint vestiges of boyhood had been driven from his soul. He'd always looked older than his age, but now, despite the smoothness of his skin, he no longer looked young.

 

             Alfred was a grown man, twenty-five years old, and the attack had left scars he hadn't been able to handle alone. Cathy and Pam were just kids, and Cathy had to handle a nightmare that was far worse than what he and Pam had undergone. Viktor had lost his youth. No matter what, that man had to be stopped before he damaged anyone else.

 

 

             When Ivan and Viktor left the house, Alfred gave them plenty of time to get far enough away so they wouldn't hear his car start, then hurried out of the house. He didn't know what he was going to do, other than a parade through Calais on the off chance that his presence might trigger another attack. And then what? He didn't know. Somehow, he had to be prepared; he had to get someone to keep watch so the man could be caught. It should have been easy to catch him; he'd been so careless, attacking out in the open and in broad daylight, making stupid moves, as if he attacked on impulse and without a plan. He hadn't even taken the simplest precautions against getting caught. The whole thing was strange. It didn't make sense.

 

 

             Alfred’s hands were shaking as he drove into town; he was acutely aware that this was the first time since the day he'd been attacked that he was without protection. He felt exposed as if his clothing had been stripped away.

 

 

               He had to get someone to watch him, someone he trusted. Who? Sharon? The young teacher was his friend, but Sharon wasn't aggressive, and he thought the situation called for aggressiveness. Francie Beecham was too old; Cicely Karr would be too cautious. He discounted the men because they would get all protective and refuse to help. Men were such victims to their own hormones. Machismo had killed a lot more people than PMS.

 

 

               Pam Hearst sprang to mind. Pam would be extremely interested in catching the man, and she'd been aggressive enough to kick him in the mouth, to fight him off. She was young, but she had courage. She'd had the courage to go against her father and date a half-breed.

 

 

                  Conversation ceased when he walked into Hearst's store; it was the first time he'd been seen since the end of school. He ignored the thick silence, for he had what he suspected was a highly accurate guess as to the subject of the conversation he'd interrupted, and approached the checkout counter where Mr. Hearst stood.

 

 

                 "Is Pam at home?" Alfred asked quietly, not wanting his question to be heard by the entire store.

 

 

                    Pam’s father looked as if he'd aged ten years overnight, but there was no animosity in his face. He nodded. The same thing had happened to Mr. Jones, he thought. If he could talk to Pam, maybe he could take that haunted look out of his baby girl's eyes. Mr. Jones had a lot of backbone for such a little thing; maybe he didn't always agree with him, but he'd damn sure learned to respect him. And Pam thought the world of him.

 

 

                    "I'd appreciate it if you'd talk to her." He said. There was an odd, almost militant expression in Alfred's soft hazel eyes.

 

 

                   "I'll do that," Alfred promised and turned to leave. He almost bumped into Dottie and was startled into a gasp; the woman had been right behind him.

 

 

                 "Good morning," Alfred said pleasantly. Grandma had drilled the importance of good manners into him. Strangely, Dottie seemed to have aged, too. Her face was haggard.

 

 

             "How are you doing, Alfred?"

 

 

             He hesitated, but he could detect none of the hostility he was accustomed to from Dottie. Had the entire town changed? Had this nightmare brought them to their senses about the Braginsky’s?

 

 

             "I'm fine. Are you enjoying the vacation?"

 

 

             Dottie smiled, but it was merely a movement of her facial muscles, not a response of pleasure.

 

 

                "It's been a relief." She certainly didn't look relieved; she looked worried to a frazzle. Of course, everyone should be worried.

 

 

                 "How is your son?" Alfred couldn't remember the boy's name, and he felt faintly embarrassed. It wasn't like him to forget names. To his surprise, Dottie went white. Even her lips were bloodless.

 

 

                "W—why do you ask?" She stammered.

 

 

                "He seemed upset the last time I saw him," Alfred replied. He could hardly say that only good manners had prompted the question. Californians always asked after family.

 

 

                 "Oh. He—he's all right. He hardly ever leaves the house. He doesn't like going out." Dottie looked around, then blurted, "Excuse me." And left the store before Alfred could say anything else. He looked at Mr. Hearst, and he shrugged. He thought Dottie had acted a bit strange, too.

 

 

               "I'll go see Pam now." He said.

 

                 Alfred started to walk to the Hearsts' house, but the memory of what had happened the last time he'd walked through town made chills run up his spine, and he went to his car. He checked the back seat and floorboard before opening the door. As he started the engine, he saw Dottie walking swiftly up the street, her head down as if she didn't want anyone to speak to her. She hadn't bought anything, Alfred realized. Why had she been in Hearst's store, if not to make a purchase? It couldn't be browsing, because everyone knew what every store in town carried. Why had she left so suddenly?

 

 

             Dottie turned left down the small street where she lived, and abruptly Alfred wondered what Dottie was doing walking around alone. Every woman in town should know better. Surely, she had enough sense to be cautious.

 

 

               Alfred drove slowly up the street. He craned his neck when he reached the street where Dottie had turned and saw the woman hurrying up the steps of her house. His eyes fell on the faded sign: Bay Road.

 

 

               Bay Road was where Ivan thought the rapist had dodged into a house. It made sense that he wouldn't have entered a house that wasn't his home unless he was a close friend who came and went just like a family member. That was possible, but even a very close friend would give a yell before just walking into someone else's house, and Ivan would have heard that.

 

 

             Dottie was certainly acting odd. She'd looked as if she'd been stung by a bee when Alfred had asked about her son... Bobby, that was his name. Alfred was pleased that he'd remembered.

 

 

                 Bobby. Bobby wasn't "right." He did things in a skewed way. He was unable to apply logic to the simplest of chores, unable to plan a practical course of action.

 

 

             Alfred broke out in a sweat and had to stop the car. He'd only seen Bobby once, but he could picture him in his mind: big, a little soft-looking, with sandy hair and a fair complexion. A fair, freckled complexion.

 

 

           Was it Bobby? The one person in town who wasn't totally responsible for himself? The one person no one would ever suspect? Except for his mother. He had to tell Ivan.

 

 

              As soon as the thought formed, he dismissed it. He couldn't tell Ivan, not yet, because he didn't want to put that burden on him. Ivan's instincts would tell him to go after Bobby; his conscience would argue that Bobby wasn't a responsible person. Alfred knew him well enough to know that, no matter which decision he made, he would always have regrets. Better for the responsibility to be his than to push Ivan into such a position.

 

 

              He'd call Clay. It was his job, after all. He'd be better able to deal with the situation.

 

 

            Only a few seconds passed as his thoughts rushed through his mind. He was still sitting there staring at Dottie's house when Bobby came out on the porch. It took him a moment, but suddenly he noticed Alfred's car and looked straight at him. A distance of fewer than seventy-five yards separated them, still too far for him to read Bobby's expression, but he didn't need a close-up for sheer terror to spurt through him. Alfred stomped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward, slinging gravel, the tires squealing.

 

 

                It was only a short distance to the Hearst house. Alfred ran to the front door and banged his fist on it. His heart felt as if it would explode. That brief moment when he had been face-to-face with him was almost more than he could stand. God, he had to call Clay.

 

 

               Mrs. Hearst opened the door a crack, then recognized Alfred and swung it all the way open. "Mr. Jones! Is something wrong?"

 

 

               Alfred realized that he must look wild. "Could I use your phone? It's an emergency."

 

 

              "Why—of course." She stepped back, allowing Alfred inside. Pam appeared in the hallway.

 

 

                 "Mr. Jones?" She looked young and scared, "The phone's in the kitchen."

 

 

               Alfred followed Mrs. Hearst and grabbed the receiver.

 

 

               "What's the number of the sheriff’s department?"

 

 

                  Pam got a small telephone book from the countertop and began flipping through the pages. Too agitated to wait, Alfred dialed the number for Information.

 

 

                 "Sheriff's department, please."

 

 

                "What city?" The disembodied voice asked. Alfred drew a blank. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the name of the town.

 

 

                    "Here it is," Pam said.

 

                   Alfred disconnected the call to Information, then dialed as Pam recited the number. The various computer clicks as the connection was made seemed to take forever.

 

 

                   "Sheriff’s office."

 

 

                    "Deputy Armstrong, please. Clay Armstrong."

 

 

                     "One moment."

 

 

                  It was longer than one moment. Pam and her mother stood tensely, not knowing what was going on but reacting to his urgency. Both of them had dark circles under their eyes. It had been a bad night for the Hearst family.

 

 

                 "Sheriff's office." A different voice said.

 

 

                  "Clay?"

 

 

                "You looking for Armstrong?"

 

 

                "Yes. It's an emergency!" He insisted.

 

 

                 "Well, I don't know where he is right now. You want to tell me what the trouble is—hey, Armstrong! Some guy wants you in a hurry," To Alfred, he said, "He'll be right here."

 

 

                A few seconds later Clay's voice said, "Armstrong."

 

 

                "It's Alfred. I'm in town."

 

 

                "What the hell are you doing there?" His teeth were chattering.

 

 

                 "It's Bobby. Bobby Lancaster. I saw him—"

 

 

                "Hang up the phone!"

 

 

               It was a scream, and Alfred jumped, dropping the receiver, which dangled from the end of its cord. He flattened against the wall, for Bobby stood there, inside the kitchen, with a huge butcher knife in his hand. His face was twisted with both hate and fear.

 

 

              "You told!" He sounded like an outraged child.

 

 

                "Told—told what?"

 

 

                "You told him! I heard you!"

 

 

                 Mrs. Hearst had shrunk back against the cabinets, her hand at her throat. Pam stood as if rooted in the middle of the floor, her face colorless, her eyes locked on the young man she'd known all her life. She could see the slight swelling of his lower lip.

 

 

             Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he didn't know what to do next. His face was red, and he looked almost tearful.

 

 

              Alfred strove to steady his voice.

 

 

               "That's right, I told him. He's on his way now. You'd better run." Maybe that wasn't the best suggestion in the world, but more than anything Alfred wanted to get him out of the Hearsts' house before he hurt someone. He desperately wanted him to run.

 

 

               "It's all your fault!" He looked hunted as if he didn't know what to do except cast blame, "You—you came here and changed things. Mama said you're a dirty Commie -lover."

 

 

               "I beg your pardon. I prefer clean people."

 

 

               Bobby blinked, confused. Then he shook his head and said again. "It's your fault."

 

 

               "Clay will be here in a few minutes. You'd better go."

 

 

               Bobby's hand tightened on the knife, and suddenly he reached out and grabbed Alfred's arm. He was big and soft, but he was faster than he looked. Alfred cried out as he twisted his arm up behind his back, nearly wrenching his shoulder joint loose.

 

 

              "You'll be my hostage, just like on television." He said and pushed him out the back door.

 

 

              Mrs. Hearst was motionless, frozen in shock. Pam leaped for the phone, heard the buzzing that signaled a broken connection and held the button down for a new line. When she got a dial tone, she dialed the Braginsky's number. It rang endlessly, and she cursed, using words her mother had no idea she knew. All the while she leaned to the side, trying to see where Bobby was taking Alfred. She was just about to hang up when the receiver was picked up and a deep, angry voice roared.

 

 

            "Alfred?"

 

 

             She was so startled that she almost dropped the phone.

 

 

             "No.." She choked, "It's Pam. He has Alfred. It's Bobby Lancaster, and he just dragged him out of the house—"

 

 

              "I'll be right there."

 

 

              Pam shivered at the deadly intent in Ivan Braginsky's voice.

* * *

 

              Alfred stumbled over a large rock hidden by the tall grass and gagged as the sudden intense pain made nausea twist his stomach.

 

 

              "Stand up!" Bobby yelled, jerking at him.

 

 

            "I twisted my ankle!" It was a lie, but it would give him an excuse to slow him down.

 

 

               He'd dragged Alfred across the small meadow behind the Hearsts', through a thick line of trees, over a stream, and now they were climbing a small rise. At least it had looked small, but now he knew it was deceptively large. It was a big open area, not the smartest place for Bobby to head, but he didn't plan well. That was what had thrown everyone off from the beginning, what had never seemed quite right. There had been no logic to his actions; Bobby reacted rather than planned.

 

 

              He didn't know what to do for a twisted ankle, so he didn't worry about it, just pushed Alfred along at the same speed. He stumbled again but somehow managed to retain his balance. He wouldn't be able to bear it if he fell on his stomach and he came down on top of him again.

 

 

            "Why did you have to tell?" He groaned.

 

 

             "You hurt Cathy."

 

 

             "She deserved it!"

 

 

              "How? How did she deserve it?"

 

 

              "She liked him—the Commie."

 

 

              Alfred was panting. He estimated they'd gone over a mile. Not a great distance, but the gradual uphill climb was telling on him. It didn't help that his arm was twisted up between his shoulder blades. How long had it been? When could he expect Clay to arrive? It had been at least twenty minutes.

 

 

            Ivan made it off his mountain in record time. His eyes were like flint as he leaped from the truck before it had rocked to a complete stop. He and Viktor both carried rifles, but Ivan's was a sniper rifle, a Remington with a powerful scope. He'd never had occasion to try a thousand-yard shot with it, but he'd never missed his target at close range.

 

 

             People milled around the back of the house. He and Viktor shouldered their way through the crowd.

 

 

             "Everybody freeze, before you destroy any more tracks!" Ivan roared, and everyone stopped dead.

 

             Pam darted to them. Her face was streaked with tears.

 

 

            "He took him into the trees. There." She said and pointed.

 

            A siren announced Clay's arrival, but Ivan didn't wait for him. The trail across the meadow was as plain to him as a neon sign would have been, and he set off at a lope, with Viktor on his heels.

 

 

             Dottie Lancaster was terrified and nearly hysterical. Bobby was her son, and she loved him desperately no matter what he'd done. She'd been sick when she'd realized he was the one who had attacked Cathy Teele and Alfred; she'd almost worried herself into an early grave as she wrestled with her conscience and the sure knowledge that she'd lose her son if she turned him in. But that was nothing compared to the horror she'd felt when she discovered he'd slipped from the house. She'd followed the sounds of a disturbance and found all of her nightmares coming true: he'd taken Alfred, and he had a knife. Now the Braginsky’s were after him, and she knew they would kill him.

 

 

           She grabbed Clay's arm as he surged past her.

 

 

            "Stop them." She sobbed, "Don't let them kill my boy."

 

 

              Clay barely glanced at her. He shook her loose and ran after them. Distraught, Dottie ran, too. By then some of the other men had gotten their rifles and were joining the hunt. They'd always felt sorry for Bobby Lancaster, but he'd hurt their women and Alfred, and there was no excuse for it.

 

 

              Ivan's heartbeat settled down, and he pushed the panic away. His senses heightened, as they always did when he was on the hunt. Every sound was magnified in his ears, instantly recognizable. He saw every blade of grass, every broken twig and overturned rock. He could smell every scent nature had left, and the faint acrid, coppery tang of fear. His body was a machine, moving smoothly, silently.

 

 

               He could read every sign. Here Alfred had stumbled, and his muscles tightened. He had to be terrified. If Bobby hurt him—he was so slight, no match at all for a large man like that. The bastard had a knife. Ivan thought of a blade touching Alfred's delicate, translucent skin, and rage consumed him. He had to push it away because he couldn't afford the mistakes rage could cause.

 

 

                 He broke out of the tree line and suddenly saw them, high on the side of the rise. Bobby was dragging Alfred along, but at least he was still alive.

 

 

                Ivan examined the terrain. He didn't have a good angle. He moved east, along the base of the rise.

 

 

               "Stop!" It was Bobby's voice, only faintly heard at that distance. They had halted, and Bobby was holding Alfred in front of him.

 

 

              "Stop or I'll kill him!"

 

 

                Slowly, Ivan went down on one knee and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He sighted through the scope, not for a shot, but to see how he should set it up. The powerful scope plainly revealed the desperation on Bobby's face and the knife at Alfred's throat.

 

 

               "Bobbeee!" Dottie had reached them, and she screamed his name.

 

 

               "Mama?"

 

 

               "Bobby, let her go!"

 

 

               "I can't! She told!"

 

 

               The men had clustered around. Several of them measured the distance by eye and shook their heads. They couldn't make the shot, not at that range. They were as likely to hit Alfred as Bobby if they hit anything at all. Clay looked down at Ivan.

 

 

              "Can you make the shot?"

 

 

              Ivan smiled, and Clay felt that chill run up his spine again at the look in Ivan's eyes. They were cold and murderous. "Yeah."

 

 

               "No!" Dottie sobbed the word, "Bobby!" She screamed, "Please, come down!"

 

 

              "I can't! I've got to kill him! He likes him, and he's a dirty Commie! He killed my father!" Dottie gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

 

 

                "No.." She moaned, then screamed again, "No! He didn't!" Pure hell was living in her eyes.

 

 

                  "He did! You said—a Commie—" Bobby broke off and began dragging Alfred backward.

 

 

                     "Do it." Clay said quietly.

 

                   Ivan braced the barrel of the rifle in the notch of a sapling. It was small but sturdy enough to be steady. Without a word, he sighted in the crosshairs of the scope.

 

 

                   "Wait." Dottie cried, anguish in her voice. Ivan looked at her.

 

 

                   "Please." She whispered. "Don't kill him. He's all I have."

 

 

                    His black eyes were flat. "I'll try."

 

                    He concentrated on the shot, shutting everything out as he always had. It was maybe three hundred yards, but the air was still. The image in the scope was huge and clear and flattened, the depth perception distorted. Alfred's face was plain. He looked angry, and he was tugging at the arm around his shoulder, the one that held the knife to his throat.

                  God, when he got him back safe and sound, he was going to throttle him.

 

 

              Because Alfred was so small, Ivan had a larger target than would normally have been presented. His instincts were to go for a head shot, to take Bobby Lancaster completely out of life, but he'd promised. Damn, it was going to be a bitch of a shot. They were moving, and he'd limited his own target area by promising not to go for a kill.

 

 

                The crosshairs settled, and his hands became rock steady. He drew in a breath, let out half of it and gently squeezed the trigger. Almost simultaneously with the sharp thunder in his ear, he saw the red stain blossom on Bobby's shoulder and the knife drop from his suddenly useless hand even as he was thrown back by the bullet's impact. Alfred staggered to the side and fell, but was instantly on his feet again.

 

 

                 Dottie sagged to her knees, sobbing, her hands over her face.

 

 

                 The men surged up the hill. Alfred ran down it and met Ivan halfway. He still had the rifle in his hand, but he caught him up in his arms and held him locked to him, Ivan's eyes closed as he absorbed the miracle of him, warm and alive against him, his silky hair against his face, his sweet scent in his lungs. He didn't care who saw them, or what anyone thought. Alfred was his, and he'd just lived through the worst half hour of his existence knowing that at any moment his life could be ended.

 

 

                 Now that it was over, Alfred was crying.

 

 

                  He'd been dragged up the hill, and now Ivan dragged him down it. He was swearing steadily under his breath, ignoring Alfred's gasping protests until he stumbled. Then he snatched him up under his arm like a sack and continued down. People stared after them in astonishment, but no one moved to stop him. After today, they all viewed Ivan Braginsky differently.

 

 

                    Ivan ignored Alfred's car and thrust him into his truck. Alfred pushed his hair out of his face and decided not to mention the car; they would pick it up later. Ivan was in a rage, his face set and hard. They had almost reached the road that wound up his mountain before he spoke.

 

 

                  "What in hell were you doing in town?"

 

 

                  The even tone didn't fool him. Ivan was dangerously angered. Perhaps he wasn't as cautious as he should have been, but he still wasn't afraid of him, not of the man he loved. He respected Ivan's temper, but he didn't fear him. So, he said, just as calmly.

 

 

                  "I thought seeing me might trigger him into doing something stupid, so we could identify him."

 

 

                  "You triggered him, all right. What he did wasn't nearly as stupid as what you did. What did you do, parade up and down the streets until he grabbed you?"

 

 

                  Alfred let the insult pass. "Actually, it never came to that. I intended to talk to Pam first. I stopped at the store to ask Mr. Hearst if she was home and bumped into Dottie. She acted so strange and looked so worried that it made me wonder. She almost ran out of the store. Then, when I saw her turn onto Bay Road, I remembered Bobby, what he looked like. He came out on the porch and looked at me, and I knew he was the one."

 

 

               "So, you made a citizen's arrest?" He asked sarcastically.

 

             Alfred got huffy, "No. I'm not stupid, and you'd better not make another smart remark, Ivan Braginsky. I did what I thought I had to do. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but there it is. Enough was enough. I couldn't take the chance someone else could be hurt, or that he might start taking shots at you or Viktor. I drove to Pam's house and called Clay. I had no intention of confronting Bobby, but it didn't work out that way. He followed me to Pam's and heard me talking on the phone. So, he grabbed me. You know what happened then."

 

 

             He was so matter-of-fact about it that Ivan tightened his hands on the steering wheel to keep from shaking him. If he hadn't been crying just a few minutes ago, he might have lost his tenuous control on his temper.

 

 

               "Do you know what might have happened if I hadn't come back to the barn for something and noticed your car was missing? It was just chance I was there when Pam called to tell me Bobby had grabbed you!"

 

 

                "Yes." Alfred said patiently, "I know what could have happened."

 

 

                "It doesn't bother you that he came close to cutting your throat?"

 

 

                 "Close doesn't count except in horseshoes and hand grenades."

 

 

            Ivan slammed on the brakes, so enraged he could barely see. He wasn't aware of shutting off the motor, only of closing his hands-on Alfred's slender shoulders. He was so close to pulling him across his knees that he was shaking, but he didn't seem to realize that he should be frightened. With a faint sound, Alfred dived into his arms, clinging to him with surprising strength.

 

 

              Ivan held him and felt him trembling. The red haze left his vision, and he realized that he was frightened, but not of him. With his normal damn-the-torpedoes attitude, he'd done what he'd thought was right and was probably trying to put up a calm front so he wouldn't be alarmed. As if anything could ever alarm him more than seeing an unbalanced rapist hold a knife to Alfred's fragile throat.

 

 

                Frantically he started the truck. It wasn't far from his house, but he didn't know if he could make it. He had to make love to him, soon, even if it was in the middle of the road. Only then would the fear of losing him begin to fade when he felt him beneath him once more and he welcomed him into his delicate body.

 

* * *

 

                Alfred brooded. It had been four days since Ivan had shot Bobby; the first two days had been filled with statements and police procedures, as well as newspaper interviews and even a request from a television station, which Ivan had refused. The sheriff, not being a fool, had hailed Ivan as a hero and praised the shot he'd made. Ivan's military service record was dug up, and a lot was written about the "much-decorated Vietnam veteran" who had saved a schoolteacher and captured a rapist.

 

 

               Bobby was recuperating in a hospital in Casper; the bullet had punctured his right lung, but he was lucky to be alive under the circumstances. He was bewildered by everything that had happened and kept asking to go home. Dottie had resigned. She'd have to live the rest of her life knowing that her hatred had taken seed in her son's mind and caused the entire nightmare. She knew Bobby would be taken away from her, at least for a time, and that they would never be able to live in Calais again, even if he was ever a free man. But wherever Bobby was sent, she intended to be close by. As she'd told Ivan, he was all she had.

 

 

              It was over, and Alfred knew that Ivan would never be treated as an outcast again. The threat was past, and the town was safe. Just knowing who it was and that he'd been caught making a lot of difference in Cathy Tele’s recovery, though what had happened would always mark her life. So, there was no reason why Alfred couldn't return to his own house.

 

 

             That was why he was brooding. In those four days, Ivan hadn't said a word about him remaining with him. He'd never said a word of love, not even during their wild lovemaking after he'd snatched him to safety. He hadn't said anything at all about their personal situation.

 

 

            It was time to go home. Alfred couldn't stay with him forever, not when there was no fear for his safety now. He knew their affair would probably continue, at least for a while, but still, the thought of leaving his house depressed him. He'd loved every minute of his time on Braginsky's Mountain, loved sharing the little commonplace things with him. Life consisted of small things, with only scattered moments of intensity.

 

 

             He calmly packed and refused to let himself cry. He was going to be under control and not make a scene. He loaded his suitcases into his car, then waited for Ivan to return to the house. It would be childish to sneak off, and he wouldn't do it; he'd tell him he was returning to his home, thank him for his protection and leave. It would be immensely civilized.

 

 

               As it happened, it was late afternoon when Ivan got back. He was sweaty and coated with dust, and limping a little because a cow had stepped on his foot. He wasn't in a good mood.

 

 

              Alfred smiled at him.

 

 

                "I've decided to get out of your hair since there's no reason to be afraid of staying by myself now. I've already packed and loaded everything in the car, but I wanted to stay until you got home to thank you for everything you've done."

 

 

                Ivan paused in the act of gulping cool, fresh water down his parched throat. Viktor froze on the step, not wanting them to see him. He couldn't believe Ivan would let him leave.

 

 

                    Slowly, Ivan turned his head to look at him. There was a savage expression in his eyes, but Alfred was concentrating too hard on maintaining control to see it. He gave him another smile, but this one was harder because he hadn't said a word, not even, "I'll call you."

 

 

                "Well," Alfred said brightly, "I'll see you around. Tell Viktor not to forget his lessons." He marched out the front door and down the steps. He'd gotten halfway to his car when a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around.

 

 

                 "I'll be damned if you're setting foot off this mountain," Ivan said in a harsh tone. Ivan towered over him. For the first-time Alfred felt it was a disadvantage that he barely reached his nose. He had to tilt his head back to talk to him, he was so close. The heat from Ivan's body enveloped him like steam.

 

 

                    "I can't stay here forever," He replied reasonably, but now he could see the look in his eyes and he shivered, "I'm a small-town schoolteacher. I can't just cohabit with you—"

 

 

                       "Shut up," Ivan said.

 

 

                       "Now see here—"

 

 

                         "I said shut up. You aren't going anywhere, and you're damn well going to cohabit with me for the rest of your life. It's too late today, but first thing in the morning we're going into town for our blood tests and license. We're going to be married within a week, so get your little butt back in that house and stay there. I'll bring your suitcases in."

 

 

                          Ivan's expression would have made most men back up a few steps, but Alfred crossed his arms.

 

 

                         "I'm not marrying someone who doesn't love me."

 

 

                           "Hellfire!" Ivan roared and jerked him up against him, "Not love you? Damn, малыш, you've been wrapping me around your little finger since the first time I set eyes on you! I'd have killed Bobby Lancaster in a heartbeat for you, so don't you ever say I don't love you!" As a declaration of love cum marriage proposal, it wasn't exactly romantic, but it was certainly exciting. Alfred smiled up at him and went on tiptoe to loop his arms around his neck.

 

 

                            "I love you, too."

 

 

                         Ivan glared down at him but noticed how adorable he looked with his soft pink sweater bringing out the delicate roses in his cheeks, and his blue eyes twinkling at him. A breeze flirted with Alfred's silky, silvery-blonde hair, and suddenly Ivan buried his face in the baby-fine strands at his temple.

 

 

                         "God, I love you," Ivan whispered. He'd never thought he would love any man, least of all an American, but that was before this slight, delicate creature had bulldozed his way into his life and completely changed it. He could no more live without him now that he could live without air.

 

 

                    "I want children," Alfred stated. Ivan smiled against his temple.

 

 

                     "I'm willing."

 

 

                   Alfred thought about it some more.

 

 

                    "I think I'd like four."

 

 

                     A slight frown creased his brow as he held him tighter.

 

 

                      "We'll see."

 

 

                      Ivan lifted him in his arms and started for the house, where he belonged.

 

 

                      Viktor watched from the window and turned away with a grin as his father lifted Alfred against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So sorry for posting hella late, I was doing papers and finals and then I had to pack to go home, I was so close to missing my flight- it was a mess. But I'm finally home, I settled in and here you go! one more chapter after this and the story ends! please be warned that there will be m! preg in the next chapter. As always, please comment and give Kudos if you already haven't. See Y'all soon!


	13. Epilogue

_Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, Colorado._

 

 

             Viktor opened the letter from Alfred and began grinning as he read. His roommate looked at him with interest.

 

 

             "Good news from home?"

 

 

              "Yeah..." Viktor said without looking up, "My stepfather is pregnant again."

 

 

                "That's still weird to me, I mean… How didn't he know he had women's bits as well as men's? Did he never have any blood tests his whole life? Why did no one know?"

 

 

                Viktor chuckled and shrugged in response.

 

 

                 "Anyway... I thought he just had a baby."

 

 

                "Two years ago. This is their third."

 

 

               His roommate, Bill Stolsky, watched Viktor finish the letter. Privately he was a little awed by the calm, remote half-breed. Even when they'd been doolies, first-year cadets, and normally regarded as lower than the low, there had been something about Viktor Braginsky that had kept the upper-classmen from dealing him too much misery. He'd been at the top of his class from the beginning, and it was already known that he was moving on to flight training after graduation. Braginsky was on the fast track to the top, and even his instructors knew it.

 

 

              "How old is your stepfather?" Stolsky asked in curiosity. He knew Braginsky was twenty-one, a year younger than himself, though they were both seniors in the Academy.

 

 

              Viktor shrugged and reached for a picture he kept in his locker.

 

 

              "Young enough. My dad's pretty young, too. He was just a kid when I was born."

 

 

            Stolsky took the picture and looked at the four people in it. It wasn't a posed photograph, which made it more intimate. Three adults were playing with a baby. One man was small and delicate and was looking up from the baby in his lap to smile at a strong and eagle-featured man. The man was one tough-looking dude. Stolsky wouldn't want to meet him in an alley, dark or otherwise. He glanced quickly at Viktor and saw the strong resemblance.

 

 

 

            But the baby was clinging to the big man's finger with a dimpled fist and laughing while Viktor tickled his neck. It was a revealing and strangely disturbing look into Braginsky's private life, into his tightly knit family.

 

 

                Stolsky cleared his throat, "Is that the newest baby?"

 

 

                  "No, that picture was made when I was a senior in high school. That's Alexi. He's four years old now, and Yuri is two."

 

 

                 Viktor couldn't help grinning and feeling worried at the same time when he thought of Alfred's letter. Both his little brothers had been delivered by cesarean, for obvious reasons, but also because Alfred was simply too slender to have them, even if it had been possible. After Yuri's birth, Ivan had said there would be no more babies because Alfred had had such a hard time carrying Yuri. But Alfred had won, as usual. He'd have to make a point of getting off on leave when this baby was due.

 

 

                 "Your stepfather isn't—uh—"

 

 

                  "Russian? No."

 

 

                 "Do you like him?"

 

 

                 Viktor smiled, "I love him. I wouldn't be here without him."

 

 

                 He stood and walked to the window. Six years of hard work, and he was on the verge of getting what he'd lived for: fighter jets. First, there was flight training, then Fighter Training School. More years of hard work loomed before him, but he was eager for them. Only a small percentage made it to fighters, but he was going to be one of them.

 

                     The cadets in his class who were going on to flight training had already been thinking of fighter call signs, picking theirs out even though they knew some of them would wash out of flight training, and an even greater number would never make it to fighters. But they never thought it would be them; it was always the other guy who washed out, the other guy who didn't have the stuff.

 

                  They'd had a lot of fun thinking up those signs, and Viktor had sat quietly, a little apart as he always was. Then Richards had pointed at him and said, "You'll be Chief."

 

 

                  Viktor had looked up, his face calm and remote.

 

 

                      "I'm not a chief." His tone had been even, but Richards had felt a chill.

 

 

                       "All right..." He'd agreed, "What do you want to be called?"

 

 

                         Viktor had shrugged, "Call me 'Halfie.' It's what I am."

 

 

                       Already, though they hadn't even graduated yet, people were calling him Halfie Braginsky. The name would be painted on his helmet, and a lot of people would forget his real name.

 

                      Alfred had given him this. He'd pushed and prodded, fought for him, taught him. He'd given him his life, up in the blue.

 

* * *

 

 

                     Alfred turned into Ivan's arms. He was nude, and Ivan's strong hand kept stroking down his pale body as if searching out signs of his as-yet-invisible pregnancy. Alfred knew he was worried, but he felt wonderful and tried to reassure him.

 

 

                   "I've never felt better. Face it, pregnancy agrees with me."

 

 

                   Ivan chuckled and stroked Alfred's chest, concentrating on his nipples, that were now much more sensitive. Ivan could almost bring him to satisfaction just with his mouth on his nipples.

 

 

                   “But this is the last one," Ivan said.

 

 

                   "What if it's another boy? Wouldn't you like to try for a girl just once more?"

 

 

                     Ivan groaned because that was the argument Alfred used to talk him into getting him pregnant this time. He was determined to have his four children.

 

 

                     "Let's make a deal. If this one is a girl, there won't be anymore. If it's a boy, we'll have one more baby, but that's the limit, regardless of its sex."

 

                      "It's a deal." Alfred agreed then paused, "Have you thought that it's possible you could father a hundred children and they'd all be boys? You may not have any female sperm. Look at your track record, three boys in a row—"

 

                   Ivan put his hand on Alfred's mouth.

 

                    "No more. Four is the absolute limit."

 

                 Alfred laughed at him and arched his slender body against him. Ivan's response was immediate, even after five years of marriage. Later, when he slept, Alfred smiled into the darkness and stroked Ivan's strong back. This baby was a boy, too, he felt. But the next one—ah, the next one would be the daughter Ivan craved. He was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All things must come to an end! Hope y'all liked they story and I am writing some drafts for a new one, might change up my style and what not, but anyways, thank you to everyone who has been here since day one, and thank you for everybody else for lending me their support! Hope I get to see y'all in my next story!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked it! please comment and give this story a Kudos! Thanks again for reading, even if this fandom is kind of dead.


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